TALES  of  my  NATIVE  TOWN 

By 

Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

TRANSLATED    BY 

PROF.  RAFAEL  MANTELLINI,  Ph.D. 

INSTRUCTOR   OF    ROMANCE    LANGUAGES    AT   THE    BERKELEY- 
IRVING   SCHOOL,    NEW   YORK   CITY 

WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION 
BY 

JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 


GARDEN   CITY  NEW  YORK  LONDON 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  ^  COMPANY 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &   COMPANY 

ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING   THAT   OF 

TRANSLATION    INTO    FOREIGN    LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING   THE    SCANDINAVIAN 


H3(^^'^^ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I    The  Hero 3 

II  The  Countess  of  Amalfi        ....  10 

III  The  Return  of  Turlendana       ...  56 

IV  Turlendana  Drunk 72 

V  The  Gold  Pieces     .......  83 

VI    Sorcery 92 

VII  The  Idolaters   ........  119 

VIII    Mungia 140 

IX  The  Downfall  of  Candia      .     .     .     .  153 

X  The  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Ofena       .  172 

XI    The  War  of  the  Bridge 192 

XII    The  Virgin  Anna 215 


43605] 


INTRODUCTION 
By  Joseph  Hergesheimer 

I 

THE  attitude  of  mind  necessary  to  a  com- 
plete enjoyment  of  the  tales  in  this  book 
must  first  spring  from  the  reahsation  that,  as 
stories,  they  are  as  different  from  our  own  short 
imaginative  fiction  as  the  town  of  Pescara,  on 
the  Adriatic  Sea,  is  different  from  Marblehead  in 
Massachusetts.  It  is  true  that  fundamentally  the 
motives  of  creative  writing,  at  least  in  the  West- 
ern Hemisphere,  are  practically  everywhere  alike ; 
they  are  what  might  be  called  the  primary 
emotions,  hatred  and  envy,  love  and  cruelty,  lust, 
purity  and  courage.  There  are  others,  but  these 
are  sufficient:  and  an  analysis  of  The  Downfall  of 
Candia  together  with  any  considerable  story  na- 
tive to  the  United  States  would  disclose  a  similar 
genesis. 

But  men  are  not  so  much  united  by  the  deeper 
bonds  of  a  common  humanity  as  they  are  sepa- 
rated by  the  superficial  aspects  and  prejudices  of 
society.    The  New  England  town  and  Pescara,  at 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

heart  very  much  the  same,  are  far  apart  in  the 
overwhelming  trivialities  of  civilisation,  and 
Signor  D'Annunzio's  tales,  read  in  a  local  state  of 
being,  might  as  well  have  remained  untranslated. 
But  this  difference,  of  course,  lies  in  the  writer, 
not  in  his  material;  and  Gabriele  D'Annunzio  Is 
the  special  and  peculiar  product  of  modern  Italy. 

No  other  country,  no  other  history,  would  have 
given  birth  to  a  genius  made  up  of  such  contend- 
ing and  utterly  opposed  qualities:  it  is  exactly  as 
if  all  the  small  principalities  that  were  Italy  before 
the  Risorgemento,  all  the  amazing  contradictions 
of  stark  heroics  and  depraved  nepotism,  the 
fanaticism  and  black  blood  and  superstition,  with 
the  Introspective  and  febrile  weariness  of  a  very 
old  land,  were  bound  into  D'Annunzio's  being. 

Not  only  Is  this  true  of  the  country  and  of  the 
man,  the  difference  noted,  it  particularly  Includes 
the  writing  itself.  And  exactly  here  is  the  diffi- 
culty which,  above  all  others,  must  be  overcome  If 
pleasure  Is  to  result  from  "Tales  of  My  Native 
Town."  These  are  not  stories  at  all.  In  the  sense 
of  an  Individual  coherent  action  with  the  stirring 
properties  of  a  plot.  The  Interest  is  not  cunningly 
seized  upon  and  stimulated  and  baffled  up  to  a 
satisfactory  finale.  The  formula  that  constitutes 
the  base  of  practically  every  applauded  story  here 
— a  determination  opposed  to  hopeless  odds  but 
invariably  triumphant — Is  not  ^only  missing  from 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

Tales  of  My  Native  Town,  in  the  majority  of 
cases  It  Is  controverted.    For  the  greater  part  man> 
Is  the  victim  of  Inimical  powers,  both  within  him  \ 
and  about;  and  fate,  or  rather  circumstance,  is 
too  heavy  for  the  defiance  of  any  individual. 

What,  actually,  has  happened  is  that  D'An- 
nunzlo  has  not  disentangled  these  coherent  frag- 
ments from  the  mass  of  life.  He  has  not  lifted 
his  tales  into  the  crystallised  isolation  of  a  short 
story:  they  merge  from  the  beginning  and  beyond 
the  end  Into  the  general  confusion  of  existence, 
they  are  moments,  significantly  tragic  or  humor- 
ous, selected  from  the  whole  incomprehensible 
sweep  of  a  vastly  larger  work,  and  presented  as/ 
naturally  as  possible.  However,  they  are  nor 
without  form,  In  reality  these  tales  are  woven  with 
an  infinite  delicacy,  an  art,  like  all  art,  essentially 
artificial.  But  a  definite  interest  in  them,  the  sense 
of  their  beauty,  must  rise  from  an  intrinsic  in-_, 
terest  in  the  greater  affair  of  being.  It  is  useless 
for  anyone  not  Impressed  with  the  beauty  of  sheer 
living  as  a  spectacle  to  read  "Tales  of  My  Native 
Town." 

II 

The  clear  understanding  of  a  divergence  should 
result  in  a  common  ground  of  departure,  of  sym- 
pathy, and  to  make  this  plainer  still  It  ought  to 
be  added  that  in  the  question  of  taste,  of  the 


X  INTRODUCTION 

latitude  of  allowable  material  and  treatment,  the 
Italians  are  far  more   comprehensive  than  our- 

js^lveSi^  This,  certainly,  Is  particularly  true  In  their 
attitude  toward  the  relation  of  the  sexes;  and  here 
is,  perhaps,  the  greatest  difference  between  what 
might  be  loosely  called  a  Latin  literature  and  an 
Anglo-Saxon.  We  are  almost  exclusively  in- 
terested In  the  results,  the  reactions,  of  sexual 
contacts;  but  the  former  have  their  gaze  fixed 
keenly  on  the  process  itself.  At  the  most  we 
indicate  that  consummations  of  passion  have  oc- 
curred, and  then  turn,  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  to 
what  we  are  convinced  is  the  greater  importance 
of  Its  consequences. 

But  not  only  is  Gabriele  D'Annunzio  perfectly 
within  his  privilege  in  lingering  over  any  important 
act  of  nature,  he  is  equally  at  liberty  to  develop  all 
the  smaller  expressions  of  lust  practically  barred 

yjrom  English  or  American  pens.  These,  unde- 
niably, have  as  large  an  influence  in  one  country, 
one  man,  as  In  another;  they  are — as  small  things 
are  apt  to  be — more  powerful  in  the  end  than 
the  greatest  attributes.  Yet  while  we  have  agreed 
to  ignore  them,  to  discard  them  as  Ignoble  and 
obscene,  in  "Tales  of  My  Native  Town"  erotic 
gestures  and  thoughts,  libidinous  whispers,  play 
their  inevitable  devastating  part. 

Yet  this  is  not  a  book  devoted  to  such  impulses; 
one  tale  only,  although  in  many  ways  that  is  the 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

best,  has  as  its  motive  lust.  It  is  rather  in  the 
amazingly  direct  treatment  of  disease,  of  physical 
abnormality,  that  it  will  be  disturbing  to  the  unpre- 
pared reader  from  an  entirely  different  and  less 
admirable,  or,  at  any  rate,  less  honest,  conven- 
tion. Undoubtedly  D'Annunzio's  unsparing  rev'^^ 
elation  of  human  deformity  and  ills  will  seem 
morbid  to  the  unaccustomed  mind;  but,  conversely, 
it  can  be  urged  that  the  dread  of  these  details  is 
in  itself  morbid.  Then,  too,  we  have  an  exagger-  " 
ated  horror  of  the  unpleasant,  a  natural,  but 
saccharine,  preference  for  happiness.  As  a  na- 
tion we  are  not  conspicuously  happier  than  Italy, 
but  we  clamour  with  a  deafening  insistence  for  the 
semblance  of  a  material  good  fortune.  Meeting 
pain  no  better  and  no  worse  than  other  nations, 
from  our  written  stories  we  banish  it  absolutely; 
but  anyone  who  cares  to  realise  the  beauty  that, 
beyond  question,  pervades  the  following  pages 
will  be  obliged  to  harden  himself  to  meet  pre- 
cisely the  deplorable  accidents  that  he  must  face 
wherever  life  has  been  contaminated  by  centuries 
of  brutal  ignorance,  oppression  and  want. 

Again,  it  is  not  in  the  larger  aspects,  the  nobler 
phases,  of  suffering  with  which  we  are  concerned,  ^ 
but  in  the  cold  revelation  of  rasping  details,  brutal 
sores  and  deformity,  the  dusty  spiders  of  paralysis. 
If  this  were  all  it  would  be  hideous  beyond  sup- 
port; but,  fortunately,  the  coldness  Is  only  in  the 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

method,  there  is  a  saving  spirit  of  pity,  the  valid 
humanity  born  of  understanding.  Such  horror  as 
exists  here  is  the  result  of  D'Annunzio's  sensitive 
recognition  of  the  weight  of  poverty  and  super- 
stition crushing  men  into  unspeakable  fatalities  of 
the  flesh.  A  caustic  humour,  as  well,  illuminates 
the  darker  pits  of  existence,  ironic  rather  than 
satirical,  bitter  rather  than  fatalistic;  and  then  ad- 
mirably exposing  the  rough  play  of  countrymen 
like  the  rough  wine  of  their  Province.  In  addition 
there  Is  always,  for  reassurance,  the  inclusion  of 
the  simple  bravery  that  in  itself  leavens  both  life 
and  books  with  hope. 

Ill 

Yet,  with  the  attention  directed  so  exclusively 
upon  national  differences,  equally  It  must  be  said 
that  no  Individual  has  ever  written  Into  literattire 
a  more  minute  examination  of  actuality  than  that 
in  "Tales  of  My  Native  Town."  Indeed,  to  find 
its  counterpart  it  would  be  necessary  to  turn  to  the 
relentlessly  veracious  paintings  of  the  early  Dutch- 
men, or  the  anatomical  canvasses  of  El  Greco. 
D'Annunzio's  descriptions  of  countenances  are 
dermatological,  the  smallest  pores  are  carefully 
traced,  the  shape  and  hue  and  colour  of  every  feat- 
ure. This  is  set  down  not  only  directly  but  by 
means  of  remarkable  simllies :  BInchl-Blanche  has 
a  surly,  yellow-lined  face  like  a  lemon  without  any 


INTRODUCTION  xili 

juice;  Afrlcana's  husband's  mouth  resembles  the 
cut  in  a  rotten  pumpkin;  Ciarole's  face  was  that  of 
a  gilded  wooden  effigy  from  which  the  gilding  had 
partly  worn  off;  while  Biagio  Quaglia  reflected 
the  brilliancy  and  freshness  of  an  almond  tree  in 
springtime. 

The   direct   descriptions   are   often   appalling, 
since,  as  has  already  been  indicated,  nothing  is  con- 1 
sidered  unimportant;  there  are  literally  no  reser-( 
vations,  or  rather,  no  prejudices.     The  physical 
disintegration  that  accompanies  death  is,  as  well, 
recorded  to  the  last  black  clot  and  bubble  of  red 
froth.     D'Annunzio  Is  not  afraid  of  death  in  the  \. 
context  of  his  pages,  he  is  never  reluctant  to  meet  < 
the  great  facts,  the  terrible  penalties,  of  existence ;  i 
rather  it  is  upon  them  that  his  writing  Is  founded;  ^ 
it  has.  In  the  main.  In  these  tales,  two  sides,  one   - 
of  violence,  of  murder  and  venom,  and  the  oihjer 
an  Idyllic  presentation  of  a  setting,  an  environ- 
ment, saturated  with  classic  and  natural  beauty.    ' 

The  mind,  now  horrified  by  the  dislocated 
beggars  gathered  about  the  blind  Mungia,  Is  sud- 
denly swept  into  the  release  of  evening  fragrantly 
cool  like  myrtles;  or  Turlendana  returns  from 
his  long  voyages  and,  with  his  amazing  animals, 
makes  his  way  home  Into  Pescara :  "The  river  of 
his  native  place  carried  to  him  the  peaceful  air  of 
the  sea.  .  .  .  The  silence  was  profound.  The 
cobwebs  shone  tranquilly  in  the  sun  like  mirrors 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

framed  by  the  crystal  of  the  sea."  He  passes  with 
the  Cyclopean  camel,  the  monkey  and  the  she-ass 
across  the  boat  bridge  and:  "Far  behind  the 
mountain  of  Gran  Sasso  the  setting  sun  irradiated 
the  spring  sky  .  .  .  and  from  the  damp  earth,  the 
water  of  the  river,  the  seas,  and  the  ponds,  the 
moisture  had  arisen.  A  rosy  glow  tinted  the 
houses,  the  sails,  the  masts,  the  plants,  and  the 
whole  landscape,  and  the  figures  of  the  people, 
acquiring  a  sort  of  transparency,  grew  obscure, 
the  lines  of  their  contour  wavering  In  the  fading 
light."  ^ 

Nothing  could  surpass  in  peacefulness  this 
vision,  a  scene  like  a  mirage  of  fabulous  days 
wrapped  in  tender  colour.  Throughout  the  tale  of 
The  Virgin  Anna,  too,  there  are,  In  spite  of  the 
vitriolic  realism  of  its  spirit,  the  crystal  ecstasies 
of  white  flocks  of  girls  before  the  Eucharist  of 
their  first  communion.  While  it  was  Anna's 
father  who  came  ashore  from  his  voyages  to  the 
island  of  Rota  with  his  shirt  all  scented  with 
southern  fruit.  The  Virgin  Anna  has  many  points 
of  resemblance  to  that  other  entranced  peasant 
in  Une  Vie  Simple ;  but  Anna  had  a  turtle  In  place 
of  a  parrot,  and  D'Annunzio  is  severer  with  his 
subject  than  was  Flaubert. 

But  such  Idylls  are  quickly  swept  away  in  the 
fiery  death  of  the  Duke  of  Orfena,  with  the 
pistols   ringing   in   high   stately   chambers,    and 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

Mazzagrogna,  the  major-domo,  a  dripping  corpse, 
hanging  in  the  railing  of  a  balcony.  There  is  no 
shrinking,  no  evasion,  here ;  and  none  is  permitted 
the  reader: — the  flames  that  consume  the  Duke 
are  not  romantic  figments,  their  fierce  energy 
scorches  the  imagination. 

IV 

These  qualities  belong  to  a  high  order  of 
creative  writing,  they  can  never  be  the  property  of 
mere  talent,  they  have  no  part  in  concessions  to 
popular  and  superficial  demands.  This  does  not 
necessarily  imply  a  criticism  of  the  latter:  it  is  not 
a  crime  to  prefer  happiness  to  misery,  and  cer- 
tainly the  tangible  facts  of  happiness  are  success 
and  the  omnipotence  of  love.  Tales  and  stories 
exist  as  a  source  of  pleasure,  but  men  take  their 
pleasures  with  a  difference;  and  for  any  who  are 
moved  by  the  heroic  spectacle  of  humanity  pinned 
by  fatality  to  earth  but  forever  struggling  for 
release  ''Tales  of  My  Native  Town''  must  have  a 
deep  significance. 

No  one  has  abhorred  brutality  and  deception 
more  passionately  than  Gabriele  D'AnnunzIo,  and 
no  one  has  held  himself  more  firmly  to  the  exact 
drawing  of  their  insuperable  evils.  But  this  is  not 
all;  it  is  not,  perhaps,  even  the  most  important 
aspect :  that  may  well  be  his  fascinating  art.  Here, 
above  all,  the  contending  elements  of  his  being. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

the  brilliant  genius  of  the  Renaissance,  pre- 
dominate; an  age  bright  with  blood  and  gold 
and  silk,  an  age  of  poetry  as  delicately  cultivated 
as  its  assassinations.  It  was  a  period  logical  and 
cruel,  lovely  and  corrupt;  and,  to  an  extraordinary 
degree,  it  has  its  reflection  in  D'Annunzio's  writ- 
ing. 

Yet,  in  him,  it  is  troubled  by  modern  appre- 
hensions, a  social  conscience  unavoidable  now  to 
any  fineness  of  perception.  His  tales  are  no 
longer  simply  the  blazing  arbitrary  pictures  of  the 
Quatrocento;  they  possess  our  own  vastly  more 
burdened  spirit.  In  this,  as  well,  they  are  as 
American  as  they  are  Italian;  the  crimes  and 
beggars  and  misery  of  Pescara,  the  problems  and 
hopes  of  one,  belong  to  the  other;  the  bonds  of 
need  and  sympathy  are  complete. 

The  tales  themselves  are  filled  with  energy  and 
movement,  the  emotions  are  in  high  keys.  At 
times  a  contest  of  will,  of  temptation  playing  with 
fear,  as  in  The  Gold  Pieces,  they  rise  to  pitched 
battles  between  whole  towns;  the  factions,  more 
often  than  not  led  by  Holy  reliques  and  statues,  a 
sacred  arm  in  silver  or  the  sparkling  bust  of  a 
Saint  with  a  solar  disc,  massed  with  scythes  and 
bars  and  knives,  meet  in  sanguinary  struggle.  Or 
again  the  passions  smoulder  into  indi^^idual  bitter- 
ness and  scandal  and  mean  hatred.  The  Duchess 
of  Amalfi  is  such  a  chronicle,  the  record  of  Don 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

Giova's  devastating  passion  for  Violetta  Kutufa, 
who  came  to  Pescara  with  a  company  of  singers 
at  Carnival. 

Nothing  is  omitted  that  could  add  to  the  ve- 
racity, the  inevitable  collapse,  of  this  almost  senile 
Don  Juan;  while  the  psychology  of  the  ending  is 
an  accomplishment  of  arresting  power  and  fit- 
ness. There  is  in  The  Duchess  of  Amalfi  a  vivid 
presentation  of  Pescara  itself,  the  houses  and 
-Violetta's  room  scented  with  cyprus-powder,  the 
square  with  the  cobblers  working  and  eating  figs, 
a  caged  blackbird  whistling  the  Hymn  of  Gari- 
baldi, the  Casino,  immersed  in  shadow,  its  tables 
sprinkled  with  water. 

Around  Pescara  is  the  level  sea,  the  river  and 
mountains  and  the  broad  campagnia,  the  vines,  the 
wine  vats  and  oil  presses,  the  dwellings  of  mud 
and  reeds;  the  plain  is  flooded  with  magnificent 
noon,  and,  at  night,  Turlendana,  drunk,  is  mocked 
by  the  barking  of  vagrant  dogs;  the  men  linger 
under  Violetta's  lighted  windows,  and  the  strains 
of  her  song  run  through  all  the  salons,  all  the 
heads,  of  the  town.  ...  It  is  as  far  away  as 
possible,  and  yet,  in  its  truth,  implied  in  every 
heart. 


TALES 

of  my 

NATIVE  TOWN 


TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE 
TOWN 


THE  HERO 

ALREADY  the  huge  standards  of  Saint 
Gonselvo  had  appeared  on  the  square  and 
were  swaying  heavily  in  the  breeze.  Those  who 
bore  them  in  their  hands  were  men  of  herculean 
stature,  red  in  the  face  and  with  their  necks  swollen 
from  effort;  and  they  were  playing  with  them. 

After  the  victory  over  the  Radusani  the  people 
of  Mascalico  celebrated  the  feast  of  September 
with  greater  magnificence  than  ever.  A  marvellous 
passion  for  religion  held  all  souls.  The  entire 
country  sacrificed  the  recent  richness  of  the  corn 
to  the  glory  of  the  Patron  Saint.  Upon  the  streets 
from  one  window  to  another  the  women  had 
stretched  their  nuptial  coverlets.     The  men  had 

3 


4      ,      TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

wreathed  with  vines  the  doorways  and  heaped  up 
the  thresholds  with  flowers.  As  the  wind  blew 
along  the  streets  there  was  everywhere  an  im- 
mense and  dazzling  undulation  which  intoxicated 
the  crowd. 

From  the  church  the  procession  proceeded  to 
wind  in  and  out  and  to  lengthen  out  as  far  as  the 
square.  Before  the  altar,  where  Saint  Pantaleone 
had  fallen,  eight  men,  privileged  souls,  were  await- 
ing the  moment  for  the  lifting  of  the  statue  of 
Saint  Gonselvo ;  their  names  were :  Giovanni  Curo, 
rUmmalido,  Mattala,  Vencenzio  Guanno,  Rocco 
di  Cenzo,  Benedetto  Galante,  Biagio  di  Clisci, 
Giovanni  Senzapaura.  They  stood  in  silence,  con- 
scious of  the  dignity  of  their  work,  but  with  their 
brains  slightly  confused.  They  seemed  very 
strong;  had  the  burning  eye  of  the  fanatic,  and 
wore  in  their  ears,  like  women,  two  circles  of  gold. 
From  time  to  time  they  tested  their  biceps  and 
wrists  as  if  to  calculate  their  vigour;  or  smiled 
fugitively  at  one  another. 

The  statue  of  the  Patron  Saint  was  enormous, 
very  heavy,  made  of  hollow  bronze,  blackish,  with 
the  head  and  hands  of  silver. 

Mattala  cried: 

"Ready!" 

The  people,  everywhere,  struggled  to  see.  The 


THE  HERO  5 

windows  of  the  church  roared  at  every  gust  of  the 
wind.  The  nave  was  fumigated  with  incense  and 
resin.  The  sounds  of  instruments  were  heard  now 
and  then.  A  kind  of  religious  fever  seized  the 
eight  men,  in  the  centre  of  that  turbulence.  They 
extended  their  arms  to  be  ready. 

Mattala  cried: 

"One!     Two!     Three!" 

Simultaneously  the  men  made  the  effort  to  raise 
the  statue  to  the  altar.  But  its  weight  was  over- 
powering, and  the  figure  swayed  to  the  left.  The 
men  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  getting  a  firm  grip 
around  the  base.  They  bent  their  backs  in  their 
endeavour  to  resist.  Biagio  di  Clisci  and  Giovanni 
Curo,  the  least  strong,  lost  their  hold.  The  statue 
swerved  violently  to  one  side.  L'Ummalido  gave 
a  cry. 

*'Take  care!  Take  care!"  vociferated  the 
spectators  on  seeing  the  Patron  Saint  so  imperilled. 
From  the  square  came  a  resounding  crash  that 
drowned  all  voices. 

L'Ummalido  had  fallen  on  his  knees  with  his 
right  arm  beneath  the  bronze.  Thus  kneeling,  he 
held  his  two  large  eyes,  full  of  terror  and  pain, 
fixed  on  his  hand  which  he  could  not  free,  while  his 
mouth  twisted  but  no  longer  spoke.  Drops  of 
blood  sprinkled  the  altar. 


6  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

His  companions,  all  together,  made  a  second 
effort  to  raise  the  weight.  The  operation  was  diffi- 
cult. L'Ummalido,  in  a  spasm  of  pain,  twisted 
his  mouth.     The  women  spectators  shuddered. 

At  length  the  statue  was  lifted  and  L'Ummalido 
withdrew  his  hand,  crushed  and  bleeding  and 
formless.  **Go  home,  now!  Go  home!"  the  peo- 
ple cried,  while  pushing  him  toward  the  door  of 
the  church. 

A  woman  removed  her  apron  and  offered  it  to 
him  for  a  bandage.  L'Ummalido  refused  it.  He 
did  not  speak,  but  watched  a  group  of  men  who 
were  gesticulating  and  disputing  around  the 
statue. 

''It  is  my  turn!" 

*'No ! — no !    It's  my  turn !" 

''No!  let  me!" 

Cicco  Ponno,  Mattia  Scafarolo  and  Tommaso 
di  Clisci  were  contending  for  the  place  left  vacant 
by  L'Ummalido. 

He  approached  the  disputants.  Holding  his 
bruised  hand  at  his  side,  and  with  the  other  open- 
ing a  path,  he  said  simply: 

"The  position  is  mine." 

And  he  placed  his  left  shoulder  as  a  prop  for 
the  Patron  Saint.  He  stifled  down  his  pain,  grit- 
ting his  teeth,  with  fierce  will-power. 


THE  HERO  7 

Mattala  asked  him : 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do?'* 

He  answered: 

"What  Saint  Gonselvo  wishes  me  to  do." 

And  he  began  to  walk  with  the  others.  Dumb- 
founded the  people  watched  him  pass.  From  time 
to  time,  someone,  on  seeing  the  wound  which  was 
bleeding  and  growing  black,  asked  him : 

"L'Umma',  what  Is  the  matter?" 

He  did  not  answer.  He  moved  forward  grave- 
ly, measuring  his  steps  by  the  rhythm  of  the  music, 
with  his  mind  a  little  hazy,  beneath  the  vast  cover- 
lets that  flapped  in  the  wind  and  amongst  the 
swelling  crowd. 

At  a  street  corner  he  suddenly  fell.  The  Saint 
stopped  an  instant  and  swayed,  in  the  centre  of  a 
momentary  confusion,  then  continued  its  progress. 
Mattia  Scafarola  supplied  the  vacant  place.  Two 
relations  gathered  up  the  swooning  man  and  car- 
ried him  to  a  nearby  house. 

Anna  di  Cenzo,  who  was  an  old  woman,  expert 
at  healing  wounds,  looked  at  the  formless  and 
bloody  member,  and  then  shaking  her  head,  said: 

"What  can  I  do  with  it?" 

Her  little  skill  was  able  to  do  nothing. 
L'Ummalldo  controlled  his  feelings  and  said  noth- 
ing.   He  sat  down  and  tranquilly  contemplated  his 


8  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

wound.  The  hand  hung  limp,  forever  useless,  with 
the  bones  ground  to  powder. 

Two  or  three  aged  farmers  came  to  look  at  It. 
Each,  with  a  gesture  or  a  word,  expressed  the 
same  thought. 

L'Ummalido  asked : 

"Who  carried  the  Saint  In  my  place?" 

They  answered: 

"Mattia  Scafarola." 

Again  he  asked: 

"What  are  they  doing  now?" 

They  answered: 

"They  are  singing  the  vespers." 

The  farmers  bid  him  good-bye  and  left  for 
vespers.  A  great  chiming  came  from  the  mother 
church. 

One  of  the  relations  placed  near  the  wound  a 
bucket  of  cold  water,  saying: 

"Every  little  while  put  your  hand  in  it.  We 
must  go.    Let  us  go  and  listen  to  the  vespers." 

L'Ummalido  remained  alone.  The  chimmg  in- 
creased, while  changing  its  metre.  The  light  of 
day  began  to  wane.  An  olive  tree,  blown  by  the 
wind,  beat  its  branches  against  the  low  window. 

L'Ummalido  began  to  bathe  his  hand  little  by 
little.    As  the  blood  and  concretions  fell  away,  the 


THE  HERO  9 

injury  appeared  even  greater.  L'Ummalido  mused : 

"It  Is  entirely  useless  I  It  Is  lost.  Saint  Gon- 
selvo,!  offer  It  up  to  you." 

He  took  a  knife  and  went  out.  The  streets 
were  deserted.  All  of  the  devotees  were  in  the 
church.  Above  the  houses  sped,  like  fugitive  herds 
of  cattle,  the  violet  clouds  of  a  September  sunset. 

In  the  church  the  united  multitude  sang  in 
measured  Intervals  as  if  in  chorus  to  the  music  of 
the  instruments.  An  intense  heat  emanated  from 
the  human  bodies  and  the  burning  tapers.  The 
silver  head  of  Saint  Gonselvo  scintillated  from  on 
high  like  a  light  house.  L'Ummalido  entered.  To 
the  stupefaction  of  all,  he  walked  up  to  the  altar 
and  said,  in  a  clear  voice,  while  holding  the  knife 
In  his  left  hand: 

*'SaInt  Gonselvo,  I  offer  It  up  to  you." 

And  he  began  to  cut  around  the  right  wrist, 
gently,  In  full  sight  of  the  horrified  people.  The 
shapeless  hand  became  detached  little  by  little 
amidst  the  blood.  It  swung  an  Instant  suspended 
by  the  last  filaments.  Then  It  fell  into  a  basin  of 
copper  which  held  the  money  offerings  at  the  feet 
of  the  Patron  Saint. 

L'Ummalido  then  raised  the  bloody  stump  and 
repeated  in  a  clear  voice: 

"Saint  Gonselvo,  I  offer  it  up  to  you.*' 


II 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI 

I 

WHEN,  one  day,  toward  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  Don  Giovanni  Ussorio  was 
about  to  set  his  foot  on  the  threshold  of  Violetta 
Kutufas'  house,  Rosa  Catana  appeared  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs  and  announced  in  a  lowered 
voice,  while  she  bent  her  head: 

"Don  Giova,  the  Signora  has  gone." 
Don  Giovanni,  at  this  unexpected  news,  stood 
dumbfounded,  and  remained  thus  for  a  moment 
with  his  eyes  bulging  and  his  mouth  wide  open 
while  gazing  upward  as  if  awaiting  further  ex- 
planations. Since  Rosa  stood  silently  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs,  twisting  an  edge  of  her  apron  with 
her  hands  and  dilly-dallying  somewhat,  he  asked 
at  length: 

"But  tell  me  why?  But  tell  me  why ?"  And  he 
mounted  several  steps  while  he  kept  repeating  with 
a  slight  stutter: 

10 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFl  ii 

*'Butwhy?    But  why?" 

"Don  Giova,  what  have  I  to  tell  you?  Only 
that  she  has  gone." 

"But  why?" 

"Don  Giova,  I  do  not  know,  so  there  I" 

And  Rosa  took  several  steps  on  the  landing- 
place  toward  the  door  of  the  empty  apartment. 
She  was  rather  a  thin  woman,  with  reddish  hair, 
and  face  liberally  scattered  with  freckles.  Her 
large,  ash-coloured  eyes  had  nevertheless  a  singu- 
lar vitality.  The  excessive  distance  between  her 
nose  and  mouth  gave  to  the  lower  part  of  her 
face  the  appearance  of  a  monkey. 

Don  Giovanni  pushed  open  the  partly  closed 
door  and  passed  through  the  first  room,  and  then 
the  third;  he  walked  around  the  entire  apartment 
with  excited  steps;  he  stopped  at  the  little  room, 
set  aside  for  the  bath.  The  silence  almost  terrified 
him;  a  heavy  anxiety  weighted  down  his  heart. 

"It  can't  be  true  I  It  can't  be  true  I"  he  mur- 
mured, staring  around  confusedly. 

The  furniture  of  the  room  was  in  its  accustomed 
place,  but  there  was  missing  from  the  table  under 
the  round  mirror,  the  crystal  phials,  the  tortoise- 
shell  combs,  the  boxes,  the  brushes,  all  of  those 
small  objects  that  assist  at  the  preparation  of 
feminine  beauty.     In  a  corner  stood  a  species  of 


12  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

large,  zinc  kettle  shaped  like  a  guitar;  and  within 
it  sparkled' water  tinted  a  delicate  pink  from  some 
essence.  The  water  exhaled  subtle  perfume  that 
blended  in  the  air  with  the  perfume  of  cyprus- 
powder.  The  exhalation  held  in  it  some  inherent 
quality  of  sensuousness. 

"Rosa!  Rosa!"  Don  Giovanni  cried,  in  a 
voice  almost  extinguished  by  the  insurmountable 
anxiety  that  he  felt  surging  through  him. 

The  woman  appeared. 

*'Tell  me  how  it  happened!  To  what  place  has 
she  gone?  And  when  did  she  go?  And  why?" 
begged  Don  Giovanni,  making  with  his  mouth  a 
grimace  both  comic  and  childish,  in  order  to  re- 
strain his  grief  and  force  back  the  tears. 

He  seized  Rosa  by  both  wrists,  and  thus  in- 
cited her  to  speak,  to  reveal. 

"I  do  not  know,  Signor,"  she  answered.  "This 
morning  she  put  her  clothes  in  her  portmanteau, 
sent  for  Leones'  carriage,  and  went  away  without 
a  word.  What  can  you  do  about  it?  She  will 
return." 

"Return-n-n!"  sobbed  Don  Giovanni,  raising 
his  eyes  in  which  already  the  tears  had  started  to 
overflow.  "Has  she  told  you  when?  Speak!" 
And  this  last  cry  was  almost  threatening  and 
rabid. 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  13 

*'Eh?  ...  to  be  sure  she  said  to  me,  *Addio, 
Rosa.  We  will  never  see  each  other  again  .  .  .  ! 
But,  after  all  .  .  .  who  can  tell  I  Everything  is 
possible.'  " 

Don  Giovanni  sank  dejectedly  upon  a  chair  at 
these  words,  and  set  himself  to  weeping  with  so 
much  force  of  grief  that  the  woman  was  almost 
touched  by  It. 

"Now  what  are  you  doing,  Don  Giova?  Are 
there  not  other  women  in  this  world?  Don 
Giova,  why  do  you  worry  about  It  ,  .  .  ?" 

Don  Giovanni  did  not  hear.  He  persisted  in 
weeping  like  a  child  and  hiding  his  face  in  Rosa 
Catana's  apron;  his  whole  body  was  rent  with  the 
upheavals  of  his  grief. 

"No,  no,  no.  ...  I  want  VIoletta!  I  want 
Violettal"  he  cried. 

At  that  stupid  childishness  Rosa  could  not  re- 
frain from  smiling.  She  gave  assistance  by  strok- 
ing the  bald  head  of  Don  Giovanni  and  murmur- 
ing words  of  consolation. 

"I  will  find  VIoletta  for  you;  I  will  find  her 
.  .  .  So!  be  quiet!  Do  not  weep  any  more,  Don 
Giovannino.  The  people  passing  can  hear.  Don't 
worry  about  it,  now." 

Don  Giovanni,  little  by  little,  under  the  friendly 


14  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

caress,  curbed  his  tears  and  wiped  his  eyes  on 
her  apron. 

*'0h!  oh!  what  a  thing  to  happen!"  he  ex- 
claimed, after  having  remained  for  a  moment  with 
his  glance  fixed  on  the  zinc  kettle,  where  the  water 
ghttered  now  under  a  sunbeam.  "Oh!  oh!  what 
luck!     Oh!" 

He  took  his  head  between  his  hands  and  swung 
it  back  and  forth  two  or  three  times,  as  do  im- 
prisoned monkeys. 

"Now  go,  Don  Glovanino,  go!"  Rosa  Cantana 
said,  taking  him  gently  by  the  arm  and  drawing 
him  along. 

In  the  little  room  the  perfume  seemed  to  in- 
crease. Innumerable  flies  buzzed  around  a  cup 
where  remained  the  residue  of  some  coffee.  The 
reflection  of  the  water  trembled  on  the  walls  like 
a  subtle  net  of  gold. 

"Leave  everything  just  so!"  pleaded  Don 
Giovanni  of  the  woman,  in  a  voice  broken  by  badly 
suppressed  sobs.  He  descended  the  stairs,  shak- 
ing his  head  over  his  fate.  His  eyes  were  swollen 
and  red,  bulging  from  their  sockets  like  those  of  a 
mongrel  dog. 

His  round  body  and  prominent  stomach  over- 
weighted his  two  slightly  inverted  legs.  Around 
his  bald  skull  ran  a  crown  of  long  curling  hair  that 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  15 

seemed  not  to  take  root  In  the  scalp  but  in  the 
shoulders,  from  which  it  climbed  upward  toward 
the  nape  of  the  neck  and  the  temples.  He  had 
the  habit  of  replacing  from  time  to  time  with  his 
bejewelled  hands,  some  disarranged  tuft;  the 
jewels,  precious  and  gaudy,  sparkled  even  on  his 
thumb,  and  a  cornelian  button  as  large  as  a 
strawberry  fastened  the  bosom  of  his  shirt  over 
the  centre  of  his  chest. 

When  he  reached  the  broad  daylight  of  the 
square,  he  experienced  anew  that  unconquerable 
confusion.  Several  cobblers  were  working  near 
by  and  eating  figs.  A  caged  blackbird  was  whis- 
tling the  hymn  of  Garibaldi,  continuously,  always 
recommencing  at  the  beginning  with  painful  per- 
sistency. 

**At  your  service,  Don  Giovanni  I"  called  Don 
Domenico  Oliva,  as  he  passed,  and  he  removed 
his  hat  with  an  affable  Neapolitan  cordiality. 
Stirred  with  curiosity  by  the  strange  expression 
of  the  Sicffior,  he  repassed  him  In  a  short  time  and 
resaluted  him  with  greater  liberality  of  gesture 
and  affability.  He  was  a  man  of  very  long  body 
and  very  short  legs;  the  habitual  expression  of 
his  mouth  was  involuntarily  shaped  for  derision. 
The  people  of  Pescara  called  him  "Culinterra." 

"At  your  service  I"  he  repeated. 


i6  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Don  Giovanni,  in  whom  a  venomous  wrath  was 
beginning  to  ferment  which  the  laughter  of  the 
fig-eaters  and  the  trills  of  the  blackbird  irritated, 
at  his  second  salute  turned  his  back  fiercely  and 
moved  away,  fully  persuaded  that  those  salutes 
were  meant  for  taunts. 

Don  Domenico,  astonished,  followed  him  with 
these  words: 

"But,  Don  Gioval  ...  are  you  angry  .  .  . 
but..." 

Don  Giovanni  did  not  listen.  He  walked  on 
with  quick  steps  toward  his  home.  The  fruit- 
sellers  and  the  blacksmiths  along  the  road  gazed 
and  could  not  understand  the  strange  behaviour 
of  these  two  men,  breathless  and  dripping  with 
perspiration  under  the  noonday  sun. 

Having  arrived  at  his  door,  Don  Giovanni, 
scarcely  stopping  to  knock,  turned  like  a  serpent, 
yellow  and  green  with  rage,  and  cried: 

*'Don  Dome,  oh  Don  Dome,  I  will  hit  you  I'* 
With  this  threat,  he  entered  his  house  and  closed 
the  door  violently  behind  him. 

Don  Domenico,  dumbfounded,  stood  for  a  time 
speechless.  Then  he  retraced  his  steps,  wondering 
what  could  account  for  this  behaviour,  when  Mat- 
teo  Verdura,  one  of  the  fig-eaters,  called: 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  17 

"Come  here  I  Come  here  I  I  have  a  great  bit 
of  news  to  tell  you." 

"What  news?"  asked  the  man  of  the  long  spine, 
as  he  approached. 

"Don't  you  know  about  it?" 

"About  what?" 

"Ah  I    Ah  I    Then  you  haven't  heard  yet?" 

"Heard  what?" 

Verdura  fell  to  laughing  and  the  other  cobblers 
imitated  him.  Spontaneously  all  of  them  shook 
with  the  same  rasping  and  inharmonious  mirth, 
differing  only  with  the  personality  of  each  man. 

"Buy  three  cents'  worth  of  figs  and  I  will  tell 
you." 

Don  Domenico,  who  was  niggardly,  hesitated 
slightly,  but  curiosity  conquered  him. 

"Very  well,  here  it  is." 

Verdura  called  a  woman  and  had  her  heap  up 
the  fruit  on  a  plate.    Then  he  said : 

"That  signora  who  lived  up  there,  Donna  Vio- 
letta,  do  you  remember  .  .  .?  That  one  of  the 
theatre,  do  you  remember  .  .  .  ? 

"Well?" 

"She  has  made  off  this  morning.    Crash  I'* 

"Indeed?" 

"Indeed,  Don  Dome." 

"Ah,  now  I  understand!"  exclaimed  Don  Do- 


1 8  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

menico,  who  was  a  subtle  man  and  cruelly 
malicious. 

Then,  as  he  wished  to  revenge  himself  for  the 
offence  given  him  by  Don  Giovanni  and  also  to 
make  up  for  the  three  cents  expended  for  the 
news,  he  went  Immediately  to  the  casino  In  order 
to  divulge  the  secret  and  to  enlarge  upon  It. 

The  "casino,"  a  kind  of  cafe,  stood  Immersed 
in  shadow,  and  up  from  Its  tables  sprinkled  with 
water,  arose  a  singular  odour  of  dust  and  musk. 
There  snored  Doctor  Punzoni,  relaxed  upon  a 
chair,  with  his  arms  dangling.  The  Baron  Cappa, 
an  old  soul,  full  of  affection  for  lame  dogs  and 
tender  girls,  nodded  discreetly  over  a  newspaper. 
Don  Ferdlnando  Giordano  moved  little  flags  over 
a  card  representing  the  battlefields  of  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war.  Don  Settimlo  de  Marlnis  ap- 
praised with  Doctor  Flocca  the  works  of  Pietro 
Mettastaslo,  not  without  many  vocal  explosions 
and  a  certain  flowery  eloquency  in  the  use  of  poeti- 
cal expressions.  The  notary  GaiullI,  not  knowing 
with  whom  to  play,  shuffled  the  cards  of  his  game 
alone,  and  laid  them  out  in  a  row  on  the  table. 
Don  Paolo  Seccia  sauntered  around  the  billiard 
table  with  steps  calculated  to  assist  the  digestion. 

Don  Domenico  Ollva  entered  with  so  much 
vehemence,  that  all  turned  toward  him  except  Doc- 


I 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  19 

tor  PanzonI,  who  still  remained  in  the  embrace 
of  slumber. 

"Have  you  heard?  Have  you  heard?" 
Don  Domenico  was  so  anxious  to  tell  the  news, 
and  so  breathless,  that  at  first  he  stuttered  without 
making  himself  understood.  All  of  these  gentle- 
men around  him  hung  upon  his  words,  anticipat- 
ing with  delight  any  unusual  occurrence  that  might 
enliven  their  noonday  chatter. 

Don  Paolo  Seccia,  who  was  slightly  deaf  in 
one  ear,  said  impatiently,  "But  have  they  tied  your 
tongue,  Don  Dome?" 

Don  Domenico  recommenced  his  story  at  the 
beginning,  with  more  calmness  and  clearness.  He 
told  everything;  enlarged  on  the  rage  of  Don  Gio- 
vanni Ussorio;  added  fantastic  details;  grew  in- 
toxicated with  his  own  words  as  he  went  on. 
"Now  do  you  see?  Now  do  you  see?" 
Doctor  Panzoni,  at  the  noise,  opened  his  eye- 
lids, rolling  his  huge  pupils  still  dull  with  sleep 
and  still  blowing  through  the  monstrous  hairs  of 
his  nose,  said  or  rather  snorted  nasally: 

"What  has  happened?    What  has  happened?" 
And  with  much  effort,  bearing  down  on  his 
walking  stick,  he  raised  himself  very  slowly,  and 
joined  the  gathering  in  order  to  hear. 

The  Baron  Cappa  now  narrated,  with  much 


20  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

saliva  In  his  mouth,  a  well-nourished  story 
apropos  of  Violetta  Kutufa.  From  the  pupils  of 
the  eyes  of  his  Intent  listeners  gleams  flashed  in 
turn.  The  greenish  eyes  of  Don  Palo  Seccia 
scintillated  as  if  bathed  in  some  exhilarating  mois- 
ture.   At  last  the  laughter  burst  out. 

But  Doctor  Panzoni,  though  standing,  had 
taken  refuge  again  In  slumber;  since  for  him 
sleep,  Irresistible  as  a  disease,  always  had  its  seat 
within  his  own  nostrils. 

He  remained  with  his  snores,  alone  In  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room,  his  head  upon  his  breast,  while 
the  others  scattered  over  the  entire  district  to 
carry  the  news  from  family  to  family. 

And  the  news,  thus  divulged,  caused  an  uproar 
In  Pescara.  Toward  eve/iing,  with  a  fresh  breeze 
from  the  sea  and  a  crescent  moon,  everybody  fre- 
quented the  streets  and  squares.  The  hum  of 
voices  was  infinite.  The  name  of  Violetta  Kutufa 
was  at  every  tongue's  end.  Don  Giovanni  Usso- 
rio  was  not  to  be  seen. 

II 

Violetta  Kutufa  had  come  to  Pescara  in  the 
month  of  January,  at  the  time  of  the  Carnival, 
with  a  company  of  singers.     She  spoke  of  being 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  21 

a  Greek  from  the  Archipelago,  of  having  sung 
in  a  theatre  at  Corfu  in  the  presence  of  the  Greek 
king,  and  of  having  made  mad  with  love  an 
English  admiral.  She  was  a  woman  of  plump 
figure  and  very  white  skin.  Her  arms  were  un- 
usually round  and  full  of  small  dimples  that 
became  pink  with  every  change  of  motion;  and 
these  little  dimples,  together  with  her  rings  and 
all  of  those  other  graces  suitable  for  a  youthful 
person,  helped  to  make  her  fleshiness  singularly 
pleasing,  fresh  and  tantalising.  The  features  of 
her  face  were  slightly  vulgar,  the  eyes  tan  colour, 
full  of  slothfulness ;  her  lips  large  and  flat  as  if 
crushed.  Her  nose  did  not  suggest  Greek  origin; 
it  was  short,  rather  straight,  and  with  large  in- 
flated nostrils;  her  black  hair  was  luxuriant.  She 
spoke  with  a  soft  accent,  hesitating  at  each  word, 
smiling  almost  constantly.  Her  voice  often  be- 
came unexpectedly  harsh. 

When  her  company  arrived,  the  Pescaresi  were 
frantic  with  expectation.  The  foreign  singers 
were  lauded  everywhere,  for  their  gestures,  their 
gravity  of  movement,  their  costumes,  and  for 
every  other  accomplishment.  But  the  person  upon 
whom  all  attention  centred  was  Violetta  Kutufa. 

She  wore  a  kind  of  dark  bolero  bordered  with 
fur  and  held  together  in  front  with  gilt  aiglettes; 


22  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

on  her  head  was  a  species  of  toque,  all  fur,  and 
worn  a  little  to  one  side.  She  walked  about  alone, 
stepping  briskly,  entered  the  shops,  treated  the 
shop-keepers  with  a  certain  disdain,  complained 
of  the  mediocrity  of  their  wares,  left  without  mak- 
ing a  purchase,  hummed  with  indifference. 

Everywhere,  in  the  squares,  on  all  of  the  walls 
large  hand-bills  announced  the  performance  of 
*'The  Countess  of  Amalfi."  The  name  of  Violetta 
Kutufa  was  resplendent  in  vermilion  letters.  The 
souls  of  the  Pescaresi  kindled.  At  length  the 
long  looked-for  evening  arrived. 

The  theatre  was  in  a  room  of  the  old  military 
hospital,  at  the  edge  of  the  town  near  the  sea. 
The  room  was  low,  narrow,  and  as  long  as  a 
corridor;  the  stage,  of  wood  with  painted  scenery, 
arose  a  few  hands'  breadths  above  the  floor;  along 
the  side  walls  was  the  gallery,  consisting  of  boards 
over  saw-horses  covered  with  tricoloured  flags  and 
decorated  with  festoons.  The  curtain,  a  master- 
piece of  Cucuzzito,  son  of  Cucuzzito,  depicted 
tragedy,  comedy  and  music,  interwoven,  like  the 
three  Graces,  and  flitting  over  a  bridge  under 
which  passed  the  blue  stream  of  Pescara.  The 
chairs  for  the  theatre,  taken  from  the  churches, 
occupied  half  of  the  pit.  The  benches,  taken  from 
the  schools,  occupied  the  remaining  space. 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  23 

Toward  seven  in  the  evening,  the  village  band 
started  its  music  on  the  square,  played  until  it 
had  made  the  circuit  of  the  town  and  at  length 
stopped  In  front  of  the  theatre.  The  resounding 
march  inspired  the  souls  of  passers-by.  The 
women  curbed  their  impatience  within  the  folds 
of  their  beautiful  silk  garments.  The  room  filled 
up  rapidly. 

The  gallery  was  radiant  with  a  sparkling 
aureole  of  married  and  unmarried  women.  Teo- 
dolinda  Pomarici,  a  sentimental,  lymphatic  elocu- 
tionist, sat  near  Fermina  Memura,  called  "The 
Masculine."  The  Fusilli  girls,  arrived  from  Cas- 
tellamare,  tall  maidens  with  very  black  eyes,  all 
clothed  in  a  uniform,  pink  material,  with  hair 
braided  down  their  backs,  laughed  loudly  and 
gesticulated.  Emilia  d'Annunzio  used  her  beauti- 
ful lion-like  eyes,  with  an  air  of  Infinite  fatigue. 
Marianlna  Cortese  made  signs  with  her  fan  to 
Donna  Rachele  Profeta  who  sat  in  front  of  her. 
Donna  Rachele  BuccI  argued  with  Donna  Rachele 
Carabba  on  the  subjects  of  speaking  tables  and 
spiritualism.  The  school-mistresses  Del  Gado, 
both  clothed  in  changeable  silk  with  mantillas  of 
most  antique  fashion,  and  with  diverse  coiffures 
glittering  with  brass  spangles,  remained  silent, 
compunctious,  almost  stunned  by  the  novelty  of 


24  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

this  experience,  almost  repentant  for  having  come 
to  so  profane  a  spectacle.  Costanza  Lesbu 
coughed  continuously,  shivering  under  her  red 
shawl,  very  pale,  very  blond  and  very  thin. 

In  the  foremost  chairs  of  the  pit  sat  the  wealth- 
iest citizens.  Don  Giovanni  Ussorio  was  most 
prominent  because  of  his  well-groomed  appear- 
ance, his  splendid  black  and  white  checkered 
trousers,  his  coat  of  shining  wool,  his  quantity  of 
false  jewelry  on  fingers  and  shirt-front.  Don 
Antonio  Brattella,  a  member  of  the  Areopagus  of 
Marseilles,  a  man  exhaling  importance  from 
every  pore  and  especially  from  the  lobe  of  his 
I  left  ear,  which  was  as  thick  as  a  green  apricot,  re- 
cited In  a  loud  voice  the  lyric  drama  of  Giovanni 
Peruzzini,  and  his  words  as  they  fell  from  his 
lips  acquired  a  certain  Ciceronian  resonance. 
The  auditors,  lolling  in  their  chairs,  stirred  with 
more  or  less  impatience.  Dr.  PanzonI  wrestled 
all  to  no  purpose  with  the  wiles  of  sleep,  and 
from  time  to  time  made  a  noise  that  blended  with 
the  "la"  of  the  tuning  Instruments. 

"Pss!  psss!  pssss!" 

The  silence  In  the  theatre  grew  profound.  At 
the  lifting  of  the  curtain  the  stage  was  empty. 
The  sound  of  a  violoncello  came  from  the  wings. 
Tilde  appeared  and  sang.     Afterwards  Sertorio 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  25 

came  out  and  sang.  After  him,  a  crowd  of  super- 
numeraries and  friends,  entered  and  intoned  a 
song.  After  them.  Tilde  drew  toward  a  window 
and  sang: 

"Oh  how  tedious  the  hours 
To  the  desirous  one  .  .  .!" 

In  the  audience  a  slight  movement  was  per- 
ceptible, since  all  felt  a  love  duet  to  be  imminent. 
Tilde,  in  truth,  was  a  first  soprano,  none  too 
young;  she  wore  a  blue  costume,  had  a  blond  wig 
that  insufficiently  covered  her  head,  and  her  face, 
whitened  with  powder,  resembled  a  raw  cutlet  be- 
sprinkled with  flour  and  partially  hidden  behind 
a  hempen  wig. 

Egidio  came  on.  He  was  the  young  tenor.  As 
he  had  a  chest  singularly  hollow  and  legs  slightly 
curved,  he  resembled  a  double-handed  spoon  upon 
which  hung  a  calf's  head,  scraped  and  polished 
like  those  which  one  sees  at  times  over  the  butcher- 
shops.     He  began : 

"Tilde!    thy    lips    are    mute, 
Thy  lowered  glances  dismay  me, 
Tell    me,    why   you    delay    me? 
Why  do  I  see  thy  hand  now 
A-tremble?     V^hy  should  that  be?" 

And  Tilde,  with  great  force  of  sentiment, 
replied : 


26  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

"At  such   a  solemn  moment,   how 
Can  you  ask  why  of  me?" 

The  duet  Increased  in  tenderness.  The  melody 
of  the  cavalier  Petrella  delighted  the  ears  of  the 
audience.  All  of  the  women  leaned  intently  over 
the  rails  of  the  gallery  and  their  faces,  throbbing 
in  the  green  reflection  of  the  flags,  were  pallid. 

"Like   a  journey  from   paradise 
Death  will  appear  to   us." 

Tilde  appeared;  and  now  entered,  singing,  the 
Duke  Carnioli,  who  was  a  man  fat,  fierce,  and 
long  haired  enough,  to  be  suited  to  the  part  of 
baritone.  He  sang  with  many  flourishes,  running 
over  the  syllables,  sometimes  moreover  boldly 
suppressing. 

"Dost  thou  not  know  the  conjugal  chain 
Is  like  lead  on  the  feet?" 

But,  when  in  the  song,  he  mentioned  at  length 
the  Countess  of  Amalfi,  a  long  applause  broke 
from  the  audience.  The  Countess  was  desired, 
demanded. 

Don  Giovanni  Ussorio  asked  of  Don  Antonio 
Brattella : 

"When  is  she  coming?" 

Don  Antonio,  In  a  lofty  tone,  replied : 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  27 

*'0h!  DIo  mio,  Don  Giova !  Don't  you  know  ? 
In  the  second  act!    In  the  second  act!" 

The  speech  of  Sertorlo  was  listened  to  with 
half-impatience.  The  curtain  fell  in  the  midst  of 
weak  applause.  Thus  began  the  triumphs  of 
•Violetta  Kutufa.  A  prolonged  murmur  ran 
through  the  pit,  through  the  gallery,  and  increased 
when  the  audience  heard  the  blows  of  the  scene- 
shifters'  hammers  behind  the  curtain.  That  in- 
visible hustling  Increased  their  expectation. 

When  the  curtain  went  up  a  kind  of  spell  held 
the  audience  in  its  grip.  The  scenic  effect  was 
marvellous.  Three  illuminated  arches  stretched 
themselves  In  perspective,  and  the  middle  one 
bordered  a  fantastic  garden. 

Several  pages  were  dispersed  here  and  there, 
and  were  bowing.  The  Countess  of  Amalfi, 
clothed  In  red  velvet,  with  her  regal  train,  her 
arms  and  shoulders  bare,  her  face  ruddy,  en- 
tered with  agitated  step  and  sang: 

"It   was    an    evening   of   ravishment,    which    still 
Fills   my   soul.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  was  uneven,  sometimes  twanging,  but 
always  powerful  and  penetrating.  It  produced 
on  the  audience  a  singular  effect  after  the  whine 
of  Tilde.     Immediately  the  audience  was  divided 


28  TALES  OF  MY  ^NATIVE  TOWN 

into  two  factions ;  the  women  were  for  Tilde,  the 
men  for  Leonora. 

"He  who  resists  my  charms 
Has   not   easy  matter  .  .  .  ! 

Leonora  possessed  in  her  personality,  in  her 
gestures,  her  movements,  a  sauciness  that  intoxi- 
cated and  kindled  those  unmarried  men  who  were 
accustomed  to  the  flabby  Venuses  of  the  lanes  of 
Sant'  Agostino,  and  to  those  husbands  who  were 
wearied  with  conjugal  monotony. 

All  gazed  at  the  singer's  every  motion,  at  her 
large  white  shoulders,  where,  with  the  movements 
of  her  round  arms,  two  dimples  tried  to  smile. 

At  the  end  of  her  solo,  applause  broke  forth 
with  a  crash.  Later,  the  swooning  of  the  Coun- 
tess, her  dissimulation  before  the  Duke  Carnioli 
(the  leader  of  the  duet),  the  whole  scene  aroused 
applause.  The  heat  in  the  room  had  become  in- 
tense; in  the  galleries  fans  fluttered  confusedly, 
and  among  the  fans  the  women's  faces  appeared 
and  disappeared. 

When  the  Countess  leaned  against  a  column  in 
an  attitude  of  sentimental  contemplation,  illu- 
minated by  the  calcium  light,  and  Egidio  sang  his 
gentle  love  song,  Don  Antonio  Brattella  called 
loudly,  "She  is  great!" 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  29 

Don  Giovanni  Ussorio,  with  a  sudden  impulse, 
fell  to  clapping  his  hands  alone.  The  others 
shouted  at  him  to  be  silent,  as  they  wished  to  hear. 
Don  Giovanni  became  confused. 

"All  is  for  love,  everything  speaks: 
The  moon,  the  zephyrs,  the  stars,  the  sea.  .  .  ." 

The  heads  of  the  listeners  swayed  with  the 
rhythm  of  this  melody  of  the  Petrella  style,  even 
though  the  voice  of  Egidio  was  indifferent;  and 
even  though  the  light  was  glaring  and  yellowish 
their  eyes  drank  in  the  scene.  But  when,  after 
this  last  contrast  of  passion  and  seduction,  the 
Countess  of  Amalfi,  walking  toward  the  garden, 
took  up  the  melody  alone,  the  melody  that  still 
vibrated  in  the  minds  of  all,  the  delight  of  the 
audience  had  risen  to  such  a  height  that  many 
raised  their  heads  and  inclined  them  slightly  back- 
ward as  if  to  trill  together  with  the  siren,  who 
was  now  concealed  among  the  flowers.   She  sang; 

"The  bark  is  now  ready  ...  ah,  come  beloved! 
Is  not  Love  calling  ...  to  live  is  to  love?" 

At  this  climax,  Violetta  Kutufa  made  a  com- 
plete conquest  of  Don  Giovanni  Ussorio,  who  be- 
side himself,  seized  with  a  species  of  passionate, 
musical  madness,  clamoured  continuously: 

"Brava!    Brava!    Braval'* 


30  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Don  Paolo  Seccia  called  loudly: 

"Oh,  see  here!  see  here!  Ussorlo  has  gone 
mad  for  her!" 

All  the  women  gazed  at  Ussorio,  amazed  and 
confused.  The  school-mistresses  Del  Gado  shook 
their  rosaries  under  their  mantillas.  Teodolinda 
Pomarici  remained  ecstatic.  Only  the  Fasilli 
girls,  in  their  red  paint,  preserved  their  vivacity, 
and  chattered,  shaking  their  serpentine  braids  with 
every  movement. 

In  the  third  act,  neither  the  dying  sighs  of 
Tilde,  whom  the  women  defended,  nor  the  rebuffs 
of  Sertorio  and  Carnioli,  nor  the  songs  of  the 
chorus,  nor  the  monologue  of  the  melancholy  Egi- 
dio,  nor  the  joyfulness  of  the  dames  and  cavaliers, 
held  any  power  to  distract  the  public  from  the 
preceding  voluptuousness. 

"Leonora!     Leonora!     Leonora!"  they  cried. 

Leonora  reappeared  on  the  arm  of  the  Count 
of  Lara  and  descended  from  a  pavilion.  Thus 
she  reached  the  very  culmination  of  her  triumph. 
'^  She  wore  now  a  violet  gown,  trimmed  with 
silver  ribbons  and  enormous  clasps.  She  turned 
to  the  pit,  while  with  her  foot  she  gave  a  quick, 
backward  stroke  to  her  train,  and  exposed  in  the 
^ct  her  instep. 

Then,   mingling  with  her  words,   a   thousand 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  31 

charms  and  a  thousand  affectations,  she  sang  half- 
jestingly, 

"I  am  the  butterfly  that  sports  within  the  flowers  .  .  ." 

The  public  grew  almost  delirious  at  this  well- 
known  song. 

The  Countess  of  Amalfi,  on  feeling  mount  up 
to  her  the  ardent  admiration  of  the  men^  became 
intoxicated,  multiplied  her  seductive  gestures,  and 
raised  her  voice  to  the  highest  altitude  of  which 
she  was  capable.  Her  fleshly  throat,  uncovered, 
marked  with  the  necklace  of  Venus,  shook  with 
trills. 

*'I,  the  bee,  who  alone  on  the  honey  is  nourished. 
Am   inebriate  under  the  blue   of  the   sky  .  .  ." 

Don  Giovanni  Ussorlo  stared  with  so  much  in- 
tensity, that  his  eyes  seemed  to  start  from  their 
sockets.  The  Baron  Cappa  was  equally  en- 
chanted. Don  Antonio  Brattella,  a  member  of 
the  Areopagus  of  Marseilles,  swelled  and 
swelled,  until  at  length  burst  from  him  the  ex- 
clamation : 

"Colossal!'* 

Ill 

Thus,  Violetta  Kutufa  made  a  conquest  of  Pes- 
cara.     For  more  than  a  month  performances  of 


32  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

the  opera  of  the  Cavalier  Petrella,  continued  with 
ever  increasing  popularity.  The  theatre  was  al- 
ways full,  even  packed.  Applause  for  Leonora 
broke  out  furiously  at  the  end  of  every  song.  A 
singular  phenomenon  occurred;  the  entire  popula- 
tion of  Pescara  seemed  seized  with  a  species  of 
musical  mania;  every  Pescarenican  soul  became  in- 
closed in  the  magic  circle  of  one  single  melody, 
that  of  the  butterfly  that  sports  among  the  flowers. 

In  every  comer,  at  every  hour,  in  every  way, 
in  every  possible  variation,  on  every  instrument, 
with  an  astounding  persistency,  that  melody  was 
repeated;  and  the  person  of  Violetta  Kutufa  be- 
came the  symbol  of  those  musical  strains,  just  as 
— God  pardon  the  comparison — the  harmony  of 
the  organ  suggests  the  soul  of  paradise. 

The  musical  and  lyrical  comprehension,  which 
in  the  southern  people  is  instinctive,  expanded  at 
this  time  without  limit.  The  street  gamins  whis- 
tled everywhere;  all  the  amateur  musicians  put 
forth  their  efforts.  Donna  Lisitta  Menuma  played 
the  tune  on  the  harpsichord  from  dawn  until  dusk, 
Don  Antonio  Brattella  played  it  on  the  flute,  Don 
Domenico  Quaquino,  on  the  clarionette,  Don  Gia- 
como  Palusci,  the  priest,  on  an  old  rococo  spinet, 
Don  Vincenzio  Rapagneta  on  his  violoncello,  Don 
Vincenzio  Ranieri  on  the  trumpet,  Don  Nicola 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  zz 

d'AnnunzIo,  on  his  violin.  From  the  towers  of 
Sant'  Agostino  to  the  Arsenal,  and  from  Pesche- 
rla  to  Dogana  the  multifold  sounds  mingled  to- 
gether and  became  a  discord.  In  the  early  hours 
of  the  afternoon  the  district  had  the  appearance 
of  some  large  hospital  for  Incurable  madness. 
Even  the  grinders  sharpening  knives  on  their 
wheels  tried  to  maintain  a  rhythm  In  the  shriek  of 
the  metal  and  the  whetstone. 

As  It  was  the  time  of  the  carnival,  a  public 
festival  was  given  In  the  theatre.  Shrove  Thurs- 
day, at  ten  In  the  evening,  the  room  blazed  with 
wax-candles,  smelt  strongly  of  myrtle  and  glit- 
tered with  mirrors.  The  masked  revellers  en- 
tered In  crowds.  Punchinellos  predominated. 
From  a  platform  enveloped  in  green  draperies, 
marked  with  constellations  of  stars  of  silver 
paper,  the  orchestra  began  to  play  and  Don 
Giovanni  Ussorlo  entered. 

He  was  dressed  like  a  grandee  of  Spain,  and 
had  the  appearance  of  a  very  fat  Count  of  Lara. 
A  blue  cap  with  a  long,  white  plume  covered  his 
baldness,  a  short  coat  of  red  velvet  garnished 
with  gold  rippled  over  his  shoulders.  This  cos- 
tume accentuated  the  prominence  of  his  stomach 
and  the  skinniness  of  his  legs.  His  locks,  shining 
with  cosmetic  oils,  resembled  an  artificial  fringe 


34  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

bound  around  his  cap,  and  they  were  blacker  than 
usual. 

An  Impertinent  Punchinello,  on  passing  him, 
cried  In  a  disguised  voice: 

''How  funny!" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  horror,  so  clownish,  at 
this  metamorphosis  of  "Don  Giovanni,"  that  much 
laughter  burst  forth  from  everyone  In  the  vicinity. 
La  CIcarina,  all  red  paint  under  the  black  hood 
of  her  domino,  like  a  beautiful  flower  of  the  flesh, 
laughed  sonorously,  while  she  tripped  with  two 
ragged  harlequins. 

Don  Giovanni,  filled  with  anger,  lost  himself  In 
the  crowd  and  sought  Violetta  Kutufa.  The  sar- 
casms of  the  other  revellers  pursued  and  wounded 
him.  Suddenly  he  encountered  another  grandee 
of  Spain,  another  count  of  Lara.  He  recognised 
Don  Antonio  Brattella  and,  at  this,  received  a 
thrust  in  the  heart.  Already,  between  these  two 
men,  rivalry  had  broken  loose. 

"How  Is  the  medlar?"  Don  Donato  Brandl- 
marte  screamed  venomously,  alluding  to  the  fleshy 
protuberance  that  the  member  of  the  Areopagus 
of  Marseilles  had  on  his  left  ear.  Don  Giovanni 
took  a  fierce  pleasure  In  this  insult. 

The  rivals  met  face  to  face,  scanned  each 
other  from  head  to  foot,  and  kept  their  respec- 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  35 

tive  stations,  the  one  always  slightly  withdrawn 
from  the  other,  as  they  wandered  through  the 
crowd. 

At  eleven,  an  agitated  flutter  passed  over  the 
crowd.  Violetta  Kutufa  entered.  She  was 
dressed  in  Mephistophelian  costume,  in  a  black 
domino  with  long  scarlet  hood,  and  with  a 
scarlet  mask  over  her  face.  The  round,  swan- 
like chin,  the  thick  red  mouth,  shone  through  her 
thin  veil.  The  eyes,  lengthened  and  rendered 
slightly  oblique  because  of  the  mask,  seemed  to 
smile. 

All  instantaneously  recognised  her  and  almost 
all  made  way  for  her;  Don  Antonio  Brattella  ad- 
vanced caressingly  on  one  side.  On  the  other 
came  Don  Giovanni;  Violetta  Kutufa  made  a 
hasty  survey  of  the  rings  that  adorned  the  fingers 
of  the  latter,  then  took  the  arm  of  Brattella. 

She  laughed  and  walked  with  a  certain  sprightly 
undulation  of  the  hips.  Brattella,  while  talking 
to  her  in  his  customary,  silly,  vainglorious  man- 
ner, called  her  "Contessa,"  and  interspersed  their 
conversation  with  the  lyrical  verses  of  Giovanni 
Peruzzini. 

She  laughed  and  leaned  toward  him,  and 
pressed  his  arm  suggestively,  since  the  weaknesses 
of  this  ugly,  vain  man  amused  her.    At  a  certain 


36  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

point,  Brattella,  when  repeating  the  words  of  the 
Count  of  Lara  in  the  melodrama  of  Petrella, 
said  or  rather  sang  submissively: 

"Shall  I  then  hope?" 

Violetta  Kutufa  answered  in  the  words  of 
Leonora : 

"Who  forbids  you  .  .  .?     Good-bye." 

Then,  seeing  Don  Giovanni  not  far  away,  she 
detached  herself  from  this  bewitching  chevalier, 
and  fastened  upon  the  other,  who  already  for 
some  time  had  pursued  with  eyes  full  of  envy  and 
dislike,  the  windings  of  this  couple  through  the 
crowd  of  dancers. 

Don  Giovanni  trembled  like  a  youth  under  the 
glance  of  his  first  sweetheart.  Then,  seized  with 
a  superabundant  pride,  he  drew  the  opera  singer 
into  the  dance.  He  whirled  breathlessly  around, 
with  his  nose  against  the  woman's  chest,  his  cloak 
floating  out  behind,  his  plume  fluttering  to  the 
breeze,  streams  of  perspiration  mixed  with  cos- 
metic oils  filtering  down  his  temples. 

Exhausted,  he  stopped  at  length.  He  reeled 
with  giddiness.  Two  hands  supported  him  and 
a  sneering  voice  whispered  in  his  ear,  *'Don  Giova, 
stop  and  recover  your  breath  for  a  minute  I'' 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  37 

The  voice  was  that  of  Brattella,  who  In  turn 
drew  the  fair  lady  into  the  dance.  He  danced, 
holding  his  left  arm  arched  over  his  hips,  beat- 
ing time  with  his  feet,  endeavouring  to  appear 
as  light  as  a  feather,  with  motions  meant  to  be 
gracious,  but  instead  so  idiotic,  and  with  grimaces 
so  monkey-like,  that  everywhere  the  laughter  and 
mockery  of  the  Punchinellos  began  to  pelt  down 
upon  him. 

"Pay  a  cent  to  see  it,  gentlemen!" 

*'Here  is  the  bear  of  Poland  that  dances  like 
a  Christian!     Gaze  on  him,  gentlemen!" 

*'Have  a  medlar?    Have  a  medlar?" 

"Oh,  see!    See!    An  orangoutang!" 

Don  Antonio  Brattella  controlled  himself  with 
much  dignity,  still  continuing  his  dance.  Other 
couples  wheeled  around  him. 

The  room  was  filled  with  all  kinds  of  people, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  the  candles 
burned  on,  with  their  reddish  flames  lighting  up 
the  festoons  of  immortelles.  All  of  this  flutter- 
ing reflected  itself  in  the  mirrors. 

La  Ciccarina,  the  daughter  of  Montagna,  the 
daughter  of  Surlano,  the  sisters  Montarano,  ap- 
peared and  disappeared,  while  enlivening  the 
crowd  with  the  beams  of  their  fresh  country  love- 
liness. Donna  Teodolinda  PomaricI,  tall  and  thin. 


38  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

clothed  in  blue  satin,  like  a  madonna,  permitted 
herself  to  be  borne  about  in  a  state  of  transport 
as  her  hair,  loosened  from  its  bands,  waved  upon 
her  shoulders.  Costanzella  Coppe,  the  most  agile 
and  indefatigable  of  the  dancers,  and  the  palest, 
flew  from  one  extremity  of  the  room  to  the  other 
In  a  flash;  Amalia  Solofra,  with  hair  almost  aflame 
in  colour,  clothed  like  a  rustic,  her  audacity  almost 
unequalled,  had  her  silk  waist  supported  by  a  sin- 
gle band  that  outlined  the  connecting  point  of  her 
arm;  and  during  the  dance,  at  intervals,  one  could 
see  dark  stains  under  her  armpits.  Amalia  Gag- 
liano,  a  beautiful,  blue-eyed  creature,  In  the  cos- 
tume of  a  sorceress,  resembled  an  empty  coffin 
walking  vertically.  A  species  of  Intoxication  held 
sway  over  all  these  girls.  They  were  fermenting 
in  the  warm,  dense  air,  like  adulterated  wine. 
The  laurel  and  the  Immortelles  gave  out  a  singular 
odour,  almost  ecclesiastical. 

The  music  ceased,  now  all  mounted  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  refreshment-room.  Don  Giovanni 
Ussorlo  came  to  invite  Violetta  to  the  banquet. 
Brattella,  to  show  that  he  had  reached  a  state 
of  close  Intimacy  with  the  opera-singer,  leaned 
toward  her  and  whispered  something  in  her  ear, 
and  then  fell  to  laughing  about  it.  Don  Giovanni 
no  longer  heeded  his  rival. 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  39 

"Come,  Contessa,"  he  said,  with  much  cere- 
mony, as  he  offered  his  arm. 

Violetta  accepted.  Both  mounted  the  stairs 
slowly  with  Don  Antonio  in  the  rear. 

*'I  am  in  love  with  you!"  Don  Giovanni  haz- 
arded, trying  to  instil  into  his  voice  that  note  of 
passion,  rendered  familiar  to  him  by  the  principal 
lover  of  a  dramatic  company  of  Chieti. 

Violetta  Kutufa  did  not  answer.  She  was  amus- 
ing herself  by  watching  the  concourse  of  people 
near  the  booth  of  Andreuccio,  who  was  distribut- 
ing refreshments,  while  shouting  the  prices  in  a 
loud  voice  as  if  at  a  country-fair.  Andreuccio 
had  an  enormous  head  with  polished  top,  a  nose 
that  curved  wondrously  over  the  projection  of 
his  lower  hp;  he  resembled  one  of  those  large 
paper  lanterns  in  the  shape  of  a  human  head. 
The  revellers  ate  and  drank  with  a  bestial  greedi- 
ness, scattering  on  their  clothes  crumbs  of  sweet 
pastry  and  drops  of  liquor.  On  seeing  Don  Gio- 
vanni, Andreuccio  cried,  "Signor,  at  your  service." 

Don  Giovanni  had  much  wealth,  and  was  a 
widower  without  blood  relations;  for  which  rea- 
sons everybody  was  desirous  to  be  of  service  to 
him  and  to  flatter  him. 

"A  little  supper,"  he  answered.     "And  take 


40  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOfVN 

care  .  .  .1'*  He  made  an  expressive  sign  to  indi- 
cate that  the  thing  must  be  excellent  and  rare. 

Violetta  Kutufa  sat  down,  and  with  a  languid 
effort  removed  her  mask  from  her  face  and  opened 
her  domino  a  little.  Her  face,  surrounded  by  the 
scarlet  hood,  and  animated  with  warmth,  seemed 
even  more  saucy.  Through  the  opening  of  the 
domino  one  saw  a  species  of  pink  tights  that  gave 
a  suggestion  of  living  flesh. 

"Your  health!"  exclaimed  Don  Pompeo  Nervi, 
lingering  before  the  well-furnished  table,  and  seat- 
ing himself  at  length,  allured  by  a  plate  of  juicy 
lobsters. 

Then  Don  Tito  de  Sieri  arrived  and  took  a 
place  without  ceremony;  also  Don  Giustino 
Franco,  together  with  Don  Pasquale  Virgilio  and 
Don  Federico  Sicoli  appeared.  The  group  of 
guests  at  the  table  continued  to  swell.  After  much 
tortuous  tracing  and  retracing  of  his  steps,  even 
Don  Antonio  Brattella  came  finally.  These  were, 
for  the  most  part,  habitual  guests  of  Don  Gio- 
vanni; they  formed  about  him  a  kind  of  adula- 
tory court,  gave  their  votes  to  him  in  the  town 
elections,  laughed  at  every  witticism  of  his,  and 
called  him  by  way  of  nickname,  "The  Director." 
Don  Giovanni  introduced  them  all  to  Violetta 
Kutufa.    These  parasites  set  themselves  to  eating 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  41 

with  their  voracious  mouths  bent  over  their  plates. 

Every  word,  every  sentence  of  Don  Antonio 
Brattella  was  listened  to  in  hostile  silence.  Every 
word,  every  sentence  of  Don  Giovanni,  was  recog- 
nised with  complacent  smiles  and  nods  of  the 
head.  Don  Giovanni  triumphed  in  the  centre  of 
his  court.  Violetta  Kutufa  treated  him  with  affa- 
bility, now  that  she  felt  the  force  of  his  gold;  and 
now,  entirely  free  from  her  hood,  with  her  locks 
slightly  dishevelled  on  forehead  and  neck,  she  in- 
dulged in  her  usual  playfulness,  somewhat  noisy 
and  childish.  Around  them  the  crowd  moved 
restlessly. 

In  the  centre  of  it,  three  or  four  harlequins 
walked  on  the  pavement  with  their  hands  and  feet, 
and  rolled  like  great  beetles.  Amalia  Solofra, 
standing  upon  a  chair,  with  her  long  arms  bare  to 
the  elbows,  shook  a  tambourine.  Around  her  a 
couple  hopped  In  rustic  fashion,  giving  out  short 
cries,  while  a  group  of  youths  stood  looking  on 
with  eager  eyes.  At  intervals,  from  the  lower 
room  ascended  the  voice  of  Don  Ferdinando  Gior- 
dano, who  was  ordering  the  quadrille  with  great 
bravado. 

"Balance!    Forward  and  back  I    Swing  1" 

Little  by  little  Violetta  Kutufa's  table  became 
full  to  overflowing.    Don  Nereo  Pica,  Don  Sebas- 


42  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

tiano  Pica,  Don  Grisostomo  Trollo  and  others  of 
this  Ussorlan  court  arrived;  even  to  Don  Cirillo 
d'Amello,  Don  Camlllo  d'Angelo  and  Don  Rocco 
Mattace. 

Many  strangers  stood  about  with  stupid  ex- 
pressions, and  watched  them  eat.  Women  were 
envious.  From  time  to  time  a  burst  of  rough 
laughter  arose  from  the  table,  and  from  time  to 
time  corks  popped  and  the  foam  of  wine  over- 
flowed. 

Don  Giovanni  took  pleasure  In  splashing  his 
guests,  especially  the  bald  ones.  In  order  to  make 
Violetta  laugh.  The  parasites  raised  their  flushed 
faces,  and,  still  eating,  smiled  at  their  "Director" 
from  under  the  foamy  rain.  But  Don  Antonio 
Brattella,  having  taken  offence,  made  as  If  to  go. 
All  of  the  feasters  opposite  him  gave  a  low  cry 
like  a  bark. 

Violetta  called,  "Stay."  Don  Antonio  re- 
mained. After  this  he  gave  a  toast  rhyming  in 
quintains.  Don  Federico  SIcoli,  half  intoxicated, 
gave  a  toast  likewise  in  honour  of  Violetta  and  of 
Don  Giovanni,  In  which  he  went  so  far  as  to  speak 
of  "divine  shape"  and  "jolly  times."  He  de- 
claimed In  a  loud  voice.  He  was  a  man  long,  thin 
and  greenish  In  colour.  He  lived  by  composing 
verses   of   Saints*    days    and   laudations    for    all 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  43 

ecclesiastical  festivals.  Now,  in  the  midst  of  his 
drunkenness,  the  rhymes  fell  from  his  lips  without 
order,  old  rhymes  and  new  ones.  At  a  certain 
point,  no  longer  able  to  balance  on  his  legs,  he 
bent  like  a  candle  softened  by  heat  and  was  silent. 

Violetta  Kutufa  was  overcome  with  laughter. 
The  crowd  jammed  around  the  table  as  if  at  a 
spectacle. 

"Let  us  go,**  Violetta  said  at  this  moment,  put- 
ting on  her  mask  and  hood. 

Don  Giovanni,  at  the  culmination  of  his  amor- 
ous enthusiasm,  all  red  and  perspiring,  took  her 
arm.  The  parasites  drank  the  last  drop  and  then 
arose  confusedly  behind  the  couple. 

IV 

A  few  days  after,  Violetta  Kutufa  was  inhabit- 
ing an  apartment  in  one  of  Don  Giovanni's  houses 
on  the  town  square,  and  much  hearsay  floated 
through  Pescara.  The  company  of  singers  de- 
parted from  Brindisi  without  the  Countess  of 
Amalfi.  In  the  solemn,  quiet  Lenten  days,  the 
Pescaresi  took  a  modest  delight  in  gossip  and 
calumny.  Every  day  a  new  tale  made  the  circuit 
of  the  city,  and  every  day  a  new  creation  arose 
from  the  popular  imagination. 


44  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Violetta  Kutufa's  house  was  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Sant'  Agostino,  opposite  the  Brina  palace 
and  adjoining  the  palace  of  Memma.  Every  eve- 
ning the  windows  were  illuminated  and  the  curious 
assembled  beneath  them. 

Violetta  received  visitors  in  a  room  tapestried 
with  French  fabrics  on  which  were  depicted  in 
French  style  various  mythological  subjects.  Two 
round-bodied  vases  of  the  seventeenth  century  oc- 
cupied the  two  sides  of  the  chimney-piece.  A 
yellow  sofa  extended  along  the  opposite  wall  be- 
tween two  curtains  of  similar  material.  On  the 
chimney-piece  stood  a  plaster  Venus  and  a  small 
Venus  di  Medici  between  two  gilt  candelabra. 
On  the  shelves  rested  various  porcelain  vases,  a 
bunch  of  artificial  flowers  under  a  crystal  globe, 
a  basket  of  wax  fruit,  a  Swiss  cottage,  a  block 
of  alum,  several  sea-shells  and  a  cocoanut. 

At  first  her  guests  had  been  reluctant,  through 
a  sense  of  modesty,  to  mount  the  stairs  of  the 
opera  singer.  Later,  little  by  little,  they  had  over- 
come all  hesitation.  Even  the  most  serious  men 
made  from  time  to  time  their  appearance  in  the 
salon  of  Violetta  Kutufa;  even  men  of  family; 
and  they  went  there  almost  with  trepidation,  with 
furtive  delight,  as  if  they  were  about  to  commit  a 
slight  crime  against  their  wives,  as  if  they  were 


I 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  45 

about  to  enter  a  place  of  soothing  perdition  and 
sin.  They  united  in  twos  and  threes,  formed  alli- 
ances for  greater  security  and  justification, 
laughed  among  themselves  and  nudged  one  an- 
other in  turn  for  encouragement.  Then  the 
stream  of  light  from  the  windows,  the  strains 
from  the  piano,  the  song  of  the  Countess  of 
Amalfi,  the  voices  and  applause  of  her  guests  ex- 
cited them.  They  were  seized  with  a  sudden  en- 
thusiasm, threw  out  their  chests,  held  up  their 
heads  with  youthful  pride  and  mounted  resolutely, 
deciding  that  after  all  one  had  to  taste  of  life  and 
cull  opportunities  for  enjoyment. 

But  Violetta's  receptions  had  an  air  of  great 
propriety,  were  almost  formal.  She  welcomed 
the  new  arrivals  with  courtesy  and  offered  them 
syrups  in  water  and  cordials.  The  newcomers 
remained  slightly  astonished,  did  not  know  quite 
how  to  behave,  where  to  sit,  what  to  say.  The 
conversations  turned  upon  the  weather,  on  politi- 
cal news,  on  the  substance  of  the  Lenten  sermons, 
on  other  matter-of-fact  and  tedious  topics. 

Don  Giuseppe  Postiglioni  spoke  of  the  pre- 
tensions of  the  Prussian  Prince  Hohenzollern  to 
the  throne  of  Spain;  Don  Antonio  Brattella  de- 
lighted in  discoursing  on  the  Immortality  of  the 
soul  and  other  inspiring  matters.     The  doctrine 


46  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

of  Brattella  was  stupendous.  He  spoke  slowly 
and  emphatically,  from  time  to  time,  pronounc- 
ing a  difficult  word  rapidly  and  eating  up  the  sylla- 
bles. To  quote  an  authentic  report,  one  evening, 
on  taking  a  wand  and  bending  it,  he  said:  "Oh, 
how  fleible!"  for  flexible;  another  evening,  point- 
ing to  his  plate  and  making  excuses  for  not  being 
able  to  play  the  flute,  he  vouchsafed:  "My 
entire  p-l-ate  is  inflamed!"  and  still  another 
evening,  on  indicating  the  shape  of  a  vase, 
he  said  that  in  order  to  make  children  take  medi- 
cine, it  was  necessary  to  scatter  with  some  sweet 
substance  the  origin  of  the  glass. 

At  intervals  Don  Paolo  Seccia,  incredulous  soul, 
on  hearing  singular  matters  recounted,  jumped  up 
with:  "But  Don  Anto,  what  do  you  mean  to  say?" 

Don  Antonio  repeated  his  remark  with  a  hand 
on  his  heart  and  a  challenging  expression,  "My 
testimony  is  ocular!  Entirely  ocular."  One  eve- 
ning he  came,  walking  with  great  effort  and  care- 
fully, painstakingly  prepared  to  sit  down;  he  had 
"a  cold,  the  length  of  the  spine !"  Another  eve- 
ning he  arrived  with  the  right  cheek  slightly 
bruised;  he  had  fallen  "underhand";  in  other 
words,  he  had  slipped  and  struck  his  face  on  the 
ground.  Thus  were  the  conversations  of  these 
gatherings  made  up.     Don  Giovanni  Ussorio,  al- 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  47 

ways  present,  had  the  airs  of  a  proprietor;  every 
so  often  he  approached  Violetta  with  ostentation 
and  murmured  something  familiarly  in  her  ear. 
Long  intervals  of  silence  occurred,  during  which 
Don  Grisostomo  Troilo  blew  his  nose  and  Don 
Federico  Sicoli  coughed  like  a  consumptive,  hold- 
ing both  hands  to  his  mouth  and  then  shaking 
them. 

The  opera-singer  revived  the  conversation  with 
accounts  of  her  triumphs  at  Corfu,  Ancona  and 
Bari.  Little  by  little  she  grew  animated,  aban- 
doned herself  to  her  imagination;  with  discreet 
reserve  she  spoke  of  princely  ^^amours,"  of  royal 
favours,  of  romantic  adventures ;  she  thus  evoked 
all  of  those  confused  recollections  of  novels  read 
at  other  times,  and  trusted  liberally  to  the  credu- 
lity of  her  listeners.  Don  Giovanni  at  these  times 
turned  his  eyes  upon  her  full  of  inquietude,  al- 
most bewildered;  moreover  experiencing  a  singu- 
lar irritation  that  had  an  indistinct  resemblance  to 
jealousy.  Violetta  at  length  ended  with  a  stupid 
smile  and  the  conversation  languished  anew. 

Then  Violetta  went  to  the  piano  and  sang.  All 
listened  with  profound  attention;  at  the  end  they 
applauded.  Then  Don  Brattella  arose  with  the 
flute.  An  Immeasurable  melancholy  took  hold  of 
his  listeners  at  that  sound,  a  kind  of  swoning  of 


48  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

body  and  soul.  They  rested  with  heads  lowered 
almost  to  their  breasts  in  attitudes  of  sufferance. 
At  last  all  left,  one  after  the  other.  As  they  took 
the  hand  of  Violetta  a  slight  scent  from  the  strong 
perfume  of  musk  remained  on  their  fingers,  and 
this  excited  them  further.  Then,  once  more  in 
the  street,  they  reunited  in  groups,  holding  loose 
discourse.  They  grew  inflamed,  lowered  their 
voices  and  were  silent  if  anyone  drew  near.  Softly 
they  withdrew  from  beneath  the  Brina  palace  to 
another  part  of  the  square.  There  they  set  them- 
selves to  watching  Violetta's  windows,  still  illu- 
minated. Across  the  panes  passed  indistinct 
shadows;  at  a  certain  time  the  Hght  disappeared, 
traversed  two  or  three  rooms  and  stopped  in  the 
last  window.  Shortly,  a  figure  leaned  out  to  close 
the  shutters.  Those  spying  thought  they  recog- 
nised in  it  the  figure  of  Don  Giovanni.  They  still 
continued  to  discuss  beneath  the  stars  and  from 
time  to  time  laughed,  while  giving  one  another  lit- 
tle nudges,  and  gesticulating.  Don  Antonio  Brat- 
tella,  perhaps  from  the  reflection  of  the  city-lamps, 
seemed  a  greenish  colour.  The  parasites,  little 
by  little  in  their  discourse  spit  out  a  certain  ani- 
mosity toward  the  opera-singer,  who  was  plucking 
so  gracefully  their  lord  of  good  times.  They 
feared  lest  those  generous  feasts  might  be  in  peril ; 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  49 

already  Don  Giovanni  was  more  sparing  of  his 
invitations. 

"It  will  be  necessary  to  open  the  eyes  of  the 
poor  fellow.  An  adventuress  I  Bah!  She  is 
capable  of  making  him  marry  her.  Why  not? 
And  then  what  a  scandal!" 

Don  Pompeo  Nervi,  shaking  his  large  calf's 
head,  assented: 

*Tou  are  right!  You  are  right!  We  must  be- 
think ourselves." 

Don  Nereo  Pica,  "The  Cat,"  proposed  a  way, 
conjured  up  schemes;  this  pious  man,  accustomed 
to  the  secret  and  laborious  skirmishes  of  the 
sacristy  was  crafty  in  the  sowing  of  discord. 

Thus  these  complainers  treated  together  and 
their  fat  speeches  only  returned  again  into  their 
bitter  mouths.  As  it  was  spring  the  foliage  of 
the  public  gardens  smelt  and  trembled  before  them 
with  white  blossoms  and  through  the  neighbouring 
paths  they  saw,  about  to  disappear,  the  figures  of 
loosely-dressed  prostitutes. 


When,  therefore,  Don  Giovanni  Ussorio,  after 
having  heard  from  Rosa  Catana  of  the  departure 
of  Violetta  Kutufa,  re-entered  his  widower's  house 


50  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

and  heard  his  parrot  humming  the  air  of  the  but- 
terfly and  the  bee,  he  was  seized  by  a  new  and 
more  profound  discouragement. 

In  the  entrance  a  girdle  of  sunlight  penetrated 
boldly  and  through  the  Iron  grating  one  saw  the 
tranquil  garden  full  of  heliotropes.  His  servant 
slept  upon  a  bench  with  a  straw  hat  pulled  down 
over  his  face. 

Don  Giovanni  did  not  wake  the  servant.  He 
mounted  the  stairs  with  difficulty,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  steps,  pausing  every  now  and  then  to 
mutter:  *'0h,  what  a  thing  to  happen!  Oh,  oh, 
what  luck!" 

Having  reached  his  room  he  threw  himself  upon 
the  bed  and  with  his  mouth  against  the  pillows, 
began  again  to  weep.  Later  he  arose ;  the  silence 
was  deep  and  the  trees  of  the  garden  as  tall  as  the 
window  waved  slightly  In  the  stillness.  There 
was  nothing  of  the  unusual  in  the  things  about  him ; 
he  almost  wondered  at  this. 

He  fell  to  thinking  and  remained  a  long  time 
calling  to  mind  the  positions,  the  gestures,  the 
words,  the  slightest  motions  of  the  deserter.  He 
saw  her  form  as  clearly  as  if  she  were  present. 
At  every  recollection  his  grief  increased  until  at 
length  a  kind  of  dulness  benumbed  his  mind.  He 
remained  sitting  on  the  bed,  almost  motionless, 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  51 

his  eyes  red,  his  forehead  blackened  from  the 
colouring  matter  of  his  hair  mixed  with  perspira- 
tion, his  face  furrowed  with  wrinkles  that  had 
suddenly  become  more  evident;  he  had  aged  ten 
years  In  an  hour,  a  change  both  amusing  and 
pathetic. 

Don  Grisostomo  Troilo,  who  had  heard  the 
news,  arrived.  He  was  a  man  of  advanced  age, 
of  short  stature  and  with  a  round,  swollen  face 
from  which  spread  out  sharp,  thin  whiskers,  well 
waxed  and  resembling  the  two  wings  of  a  bird. 
He  said : 

"Now,  Giova,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Don  Giovanni  did  not  answer,  but  shook  his 
shoulders  as  if  to  repel  all  sympathy.  Don 
Grisostomo  then  began  to  reprove  him  benevolent- 
ly, never  speaking  of  Violetta  Kutufa. 

In  came  Don  Cirillo  d'Amelio  with  Don  Nereo 
Pica.  Both,  on  entering,  showed  almost  an  air  of 
triumph. 

*'Now  you  have  seen  for  yourself,  Don  Giova  1 
We  told  you  so!  We  told  you  so!"  they  cried. 
Both  had  nasal  voices  and  a  cadence  acquired 
from  the  habit  of  singing  with  the  organ,  because 
they  belonged  to  the  choir  of  the  Holy  Sacrament. 
They  began  to  attack  the  character  of  Violetta 


52  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

without  mercy.  She  did  this  and  that  and  the 
other  thing,  they  said. 

Don  Giovanni,  outraged,  made  from  time  to 
time  a  motion  as  if  he  would  not  hear  such  slan- 
ders, but  the  two  continued.  Now,  also,  Don 
Pasquale  Virgillo  arrived,  with  Don  Pompeo 
Nervl,  Don  Federico  Sicoll,  Don  Tito  de  Sierl; 
almost  all  of  the  parasites  came  In  a  group.  Sup- 
porting one  another  they  became  ferocious.  Did 
he  not  know  that  VIoletta  Kutufa  had  abandoned 
herself  to  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  .  .  .  ?  Indeed 
she  had!  Indeed!  They  laid  bare  the  exact 
particulars,  the  exact  places. 

Now  Don  Giovanni  heard  with  eyes  afire, 
greedy  to  know.  Invaded  by  a  terrible  curiosity. 
These  revelations  instead  of  disgusting  him,  fed 
his  desire.  VIoletta  seemed  to  him  more  enticing, 
even  more  beautiful;  and  he  felt  himself  inwardly 
bitten  by  a  raging  jealousy  that  blended  with  his 
grief.  Presently  the  woman  appeared  in  his 
mind's  eye  associated  with  a  certain  soft  relax- 
ation.   That  picture  made  him  giddy. 

Oh  DIo!  Oh  Dio!  Oh!  Oh!"  He  commenced 
to  weep  again.  Those  present  looked  at  one  an- 
other and  restrained  their  laughter.  In  truth  the 
grief  of  that  man;  fleshy,  bald,  deformed,  ex- 
pressed Itself  so  ridiculously  that  it  seemed  unreal. 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI  53 

"Go  away  now  I"  Don  Giovanni  blubbered 
through  his  tears. 

Don  Grisostomo  Troilo  set  the  example;  the 
others  followed  him  and  chattered  as  they  passed 
down  the  stairs. 

Toward  evening  the  prostrated  man  revived 
little  by  little.  A  woman's  voice  called  at  his 
door:  "May  I  come  in,  Don  Giovanni?" 

He  recognised  Rosa  Catana's  voice  and  ex- 
perienced suddenly  an  instinctive  joy.  He  ran  to 
let  her  in.  Rosa  Catana  appeared  in  the  dusk  of 
the  room. 

"Come  in!  Come  in!"  he  cried.  He  made  her 
sit  down  beside  him,  had  her  talk  to  him,  asked 
her  a  thousand  questions.  He  seemed  to  suffer 
less  on  hearing  that  familiar  voice  in  which,  under 
the  spell  of  an  illusion,  he  found  some  quality  of 
Violetta's  voice.    He  took  her  hands  and  cried: 

"You  helped  her  to  dress!    Did  you  not?" 

He  caressed  those  rugged  hands,  closing  his 
eyes  and  wandering  slightly  in  his  mind  on  the 
subject  of  those  abundant,  unbound  locks  that  so 
many  times  he  had  touched  with  his  hands.  Rosa 
at  first  did  not  understand.  She  believed  this  to 
be  some  sudden  passion  of  Don  Giovanni,  and 
withdrew  her  hands  gently,  while  she  spoke  in  an 


54  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

ambiguous  way  and  laughed.  But  Don  Giovanni 
murmured: 

*'No,  no!  .  .  .  Stay!  You  combed  her,  did 
you  not?    You  bathed  her,  did  you  not?" 

He  fell  to  kissing  Rosa's  hands,  those  hands 
that  had  combed,  bathed  and  clothed  Violetta.  He 
stammered,  while  kissing  them,  composed  verses 
so  strange  that  Rosa  could  scarcely  refrain  from 
laughter.  But  at  last  she  understood  and  with 
feminine  perception  forced  herself  to  remain  seri- 
ous, while  she  summed  up  the  advantages  that 
might  ensue  from  this  foolish  comedy.  She  grew 
docile,  let  him  caress  her,  let  him  call  her  Violetta, 
made  use  of  all  that  experience  acquired  from 
peeping  through  key-holes  many  times  at  her  mis- 
tress's door;  she  even  sought  to  make  her  voice 
more  sweet. 

In  the  room  one  could  scarcely  see  them. 
Through  the  open  windows  a  red  reflection  en- 
tered and  the  trees  in  the  garden,  almost  black, 
twisted  and  turned  in  the  wind.  From  the  sloughs 
around  the  arsenal  came  the  hoarse  croak  of  the 
frogs.  The  noises  of  the  city  street  were  indis- 
tinct. 

Don  Giovanni  drew  the  woman  to  his  knees, 
and,  completely  confused  as  if  he  had  swallowed 
some  very  strong  liquor,  murmured  a  thousand 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  AMALFI        55 

childish  nothings   and  babbled  on  without  end, 
drawing  her  face  close  to  his. 

*'Ah,  darling  little  Violetta  !'*  he  whispered. 
"Sweetheart!  Don't  go  away,  dear  ...  I  If 
you  go  away  your  Nini  will  die,  Poor  Nini  •  .  .  ! 
Ban-ban-ban-bannn  !'* 

Thus  he  continued  stupidly,  as  he  had  done  be- 
fore with  the  opera-singer.  Rosa  Catana  patiently 
offered  him  slight  caresses,  as  if  he  were  a  very 
sick,  perverted  child;  she  took  his  head  and 
pressed  it  against  her  shoulder,  kissed  his  swollen, 
weeping  eyes,  stroked  his  bald  crown,  rearranged 
his  oiled  locks. 

VI 

Thus,  Rosa  Catana,  little  by  little,  earned  her 
inheritance  from  Don  Giovanni  Ussorio,  who,  in 
the  March  of  1871,  died  of  paralysis. 


Ill 

.      THE  RETURN  OF  TVRLENDANA 

THE  group  was  walking  along  the  seashore. 
Down  the  hills  and  over  the  country  Spring 
was  coming  again.  The  humble  strip  of  land 
bordering  the  sea  was  already  green;  the  various 
fields  were  quite  distinctly  marked  by  the  spring- 
ing vegetation,  and  every  mound  was  crowned  with 
budding  trees.  The  north  wind  shook  these  trees, 
and  its  breath  caused  many  flowers  to  fall.  At  a 
short  distance  the  heights  seemed  to  be  covered 
with  a  colour  between  pink  and  violet;  for  an  in- 
stant the  view  seemed  to  tremble  and  grow  pale 
like  a  ripple  veiling  the  clear  surface  of  a  pool,  or 
like  a  faded  painting. 

The  sea  stretched  out  Its  broad  expanse  serenely 
along  the  coast,  bathed  by  the  moonlight,  and 
toward  the  north  taking  on  the  hue  of  a  turquois 
of  Persia,  broken  here  and  there  by  the  darker  tint 
of  the  currents  winding  over  its  surface. 

Turlendana,  who  had  lost  the  recollection  of 
56 


THE  RETURN  OF  TURLENDANA        57 

these  places  through  a  long  absence,  and  who  In 
his  long  peregrinations  had  forgotten  the  senti- 
ments of  his  native  land,  was  striding  along  with 
the  tired,  regular  step  of  haste,  looking  neither 
backward  nor  around  him. 

When  the  camel  would  stop  at  a  tuft  of  wild 
grass,  Turlendana  would  utter  a  brief,  hoarse  cry 
of  incitement.  The  huge  reddish  quadruped  would 
slowly  raise  his  head,  chewing  the  morsel  heavily 
between  his  jaws. 

*'Hu,  Barbara  I" 

The  she-ass,  the  little  snowy  white  Susanna,  pro- 
testing against  the  tormenting  of  the  monkey,  from 
time  to  time  would  bray  lamentlngly,  asking  to  be 
freed  of  her  rider. 

But  the  restless  Zavali  gave  her  no  peace;  as 
though  in  a  frenzy,  with  quick,  short  gestures  of 
wrath,  she  would  run  over  the  back  of  the  beast, 
jump  playfully  on  her  head,  get  hold  of  her  large 
ears ;  then  would  lift  her  tail  and  shake  the  hairs, 
hold  it  up  and  look  through  the  hairs,  scratch  poor 
Susanna  viciously  with  her  nails,  then  lift  her  hands 
to  her  mouth  and  move  her  jaws  as  though  chew- 
ing, grimacing  frightfully  as  she  did  so.  Then 
suddenly,  she  would  jump  back  to  her  seat,  hold- 
ing in  her  hands  her  foot,  twisted  like  the  root  of 
a  bush,  and  sit  with  her  orange  coloured  eyes, 


58  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

filled  with  wonder  and  stupor,  fixed  on  the  sea, 
while  wrinkles  would  appear  on  her  head,  and 
her  thin  pinkish  ears  would  tremble  nervously. 
Without  warning  she  would  make  a  malicious 
gesture,  and  recommence  her  play. 

*'Hu,  Barbara!'* 

The  camel  heard  and  started  to  walk  again. 

When  the  group  reached  the  willow  tree  woods, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  River  Pescara,  figures  could  be 
seen  upon  its  right  bank,  above  the  masts  of  the 
ships  anchored  In  the  docks  of  Bandlera.  Turlen- 
dana  stopped  to  get  a  drink  of  water  from  the 
river. 

The  river  of  his  native  place  carried  to  him  the 
peaceful  air  of  the  sea.  Its  banks,  covered  with 
fluvial  plains,  lay  stretched  out  as  though  resting 
from  their  recent  work  of  fecundity.  The  silence 
was  profound.  The  cobwebs  shone  tranquilly  in 
the  sun  like  mirrors  framed  by  the  crystal  of  the 
sea.  The  seaweed  bent  in  the  wind,  showing  its 
green  or  white  sides. 

*Tescara !"  said  Turlendana,  with  an  accent  of 
curiosity  and  recognition,  stopping  still  to  look  at 
the  view. 

Then,  going  down  to  the  shore  where  the  gravel 
was  clean,  he  kneeled  down  to  drink,  carrying  the 
water  to  his  mouth  in  his  curled  up  palm.     The 


THE  RETURN  OF  TURLENDANA        59 

camel,  bending  his  long  neck,  drank  with  slow, 
regular  draughts.  The  she-ass,  too,  drank  from 
the  stream,  while  the  monkey,  imitating  the  man, 
made  a  cup  of  her  hands,  which  were  violet 
coloured  like  unripe  India  figs. 

"Hu,  Barbara !"  The  camel  heard  and  ceased 
to  drink.  The  water  dripped  unheeded  from  his 
mouth  onto  his  chest;  his  white  gums  and  yellow- 
ish teeth  showed  between  his  open  lips. 

Through  the  path  marked  across  the  wood  by 
the  people  of  the  sea,  the  little  group  proceeded 
on  Its  way.  The  sun  was  setting  when  they  reached 
the  Arsenale  of  Rampigna.  Turlendana  asked  of 
a  sailor  who  was  walking  beside  the  brick  parapet.* 

"Is  that  Pescara?" 
'  The  sailor,  astonished  at  the  sight  of  the  strange 
beasts,  answered  Turlendana's  question: 

"It  IS  that,"  and  left  his  work  to  follow  the 
stranger. 

The  sailor  was  soon  joined  by  others.  Soon  a 
crowd  of  curious  people  had  gathered  and  were 
following  Turlendana,  who  went  calmly  on  his 
way,  unmindful  of  the  comments  of  the  people. 
When  they  reached  the  boat-bridge,  the  camel  re- 
fused to  pass  over. 

"Hu,  Barbara  I  Hu,  hu  1"  Turlendana  cried  im- 
patiently, urging  him  on,  and  shaking  the  rope  of 


6o  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

the  halter  by  which  he  led  the  animal.  But 
Barbara  obstinately  lay  down  upon  the  ground, 
and  stretched  his  head  out  in  the  dust  very  com- 
fortable, showing  no  intention  of  moving. 

The  people  jesting  gathered  about,  having  over- 
come their  first  amazement,  and  cried  in  a  chorus: 

"Barbara!    Barbara!" 

As  they  were  somewhat  familiar  with  monkeys, 
having  seen  some  which  the  sailors  had  brought 
home,  together  with  parrots,  from  their  long 
cruises,  they  were  teasing  Zavali  in  a  thousand 
different  ways,  handing  her  large  greenish  al- 
monds, which  the  monkey  would  open,  glutton- 
ously devouring  the  sweet  fresh  meat. 

After  much  urging  and  persistent  shouting, 
Turlendana  succeeded  in  conquering  the  stubborn- 
ness of  the  camel,  and  that  enormous  architecture 
of  bones  and  skin  rose  staggering  to  his  feet  in 
the  midst  of  the  Instigating  crowd. 

From  all  directions  soldiers  and  sailors  flocked 
over  the  boat  bridge  to  witness  the  spectacle.  Far 
behind  the  mountain  of  Gran  Sasso  the  setting  sun 
irradiated  the  spring  sky  with  a  vivid  rosy  light, 
and  from  the  damp  earth,  the  water  of  the  river, 
the  seas,  and  the  ponds,  the  moisture  had  arisen. 
A  rosy  glow  tinted  the  houses,  the  sails,  the  masts, 
the  plants,  and  the  whole  landscape,  and  the  figures 


THE  RETURN  OF  TURLENDANA        6i 

of  the  people,  acquiring  a  sort  of  transparency, 
grew  obscure,  the  lines  of  their  contour  wavering 
in  the  fading  light. 

Under  the  weight  of  the  caravan  the  bridge 
creaked  on  its  tar-smeared  boats  like  a  very  large 
floating  lighter.  Turlendana,  halting  in  the  middle 
of  the  bridge,  brought  the  camel  also  to  a  stop; 
stretching  high  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  it 
stood  breathing  against  the  wind,  slowly  moving 
its  head  like  a  fictitious  serpent  covered  with  hair. 

The  name  of  the  beast  had  spread  among  the 
curious  people,  and  all  of  them,  from  an  innate 
love  of  sensation,  and  filled  with  the  exuberance 
of  spirits  inspired  by  the  sweetness  of  the  sunset 
and  the  season  of  the  year,  cried  out  gleefully: 

''Barbara!  Barbara  I'*  At  the  sound  of  this 
applauding  cry  and  the  well-meant  clamour  of  the 
crowd,  Turlendana,  who  was  leaning  against  the 
chest  of  his  camel,  felt  a  kindly  emotion  of  satis- 
faction spring  up  in  his  heart. 

The  she-ass  suddenly  began  to  bray  with  such 
high  and  discordant  variety  of  notes,  and  with 
such  sighing  passion  that  a  spontaneous  burst  of 
merriment  ran  through  the  crowd. 

The  fresh,  happy  laughter  spread  from  one  end 
of  the  bridge  to  the  other  like  the  roar  of  water 
falling  over  the  stones  of  a  cataract 


62  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Then  Turlendana,  unknown  to  any  of  the 
crowd,  began  to  make  his  way  through  the  throng. 
When  he  was  outside  the  gates  of  the  city,  where 
the  women  carrying  reed  baskets  were  selling  fresh 
fish,  Binchi-Banche,  a  little  man  with  a  yellow  face, 
drawn  up  like  a  juiceless  lemon,  pushed  to  the 
front,  and  as  was  his  custom  with  all  strangers 
who  happened  to  come  to  the  place,  offered  his 
services  In  finding  a  lodging. 

Pointing  to  Barbara,  he  asked  first: 

"Is  he  ferocious?'* 

Turlendana,  smiling,  answered,  "No." 

"Well,"  Binchi-Banche  went  on,  reassured, 
"there  is  the  house  of  Rosa  Schiavona."  Both 
turned  towards  the  Pescaria,  and  then  towards 
Sant'  Agostino,  followed  by  the  crowd.  From 
windows  and  balconies  women  and  children  leaned 
over,  gazing  in  astonishment  at  the  passing  camel, 
admiring  the  grace  of  the  white  ass,  and  laughing 
at  the  comic  performances  of  Zavali. 

At  one  place,  Barbara,  seeing  a  bit  of  green 
hanging  from  a  low  loggia,  stretched  out  his  neck 
and,  grasping  it  with  his  lips,  tore  it  down.  A  cry 
of  terror  broke  forth  from  the  women  who  were 
leaning  over  the  loggia,  and  the  cry  spread  to 
other  loggias.    The  people  from  the  river  laughed 


THE  RETURN  OF  TURLENDANA        63 

loudly,  crying  out,  as  though  it  were  the  carnival 
season  and  they  were  behind  masks : 

"Hurrah!    Hurrah !'* 

They  were  intoxicated  by  the  novelty  of  the 
spectacle,  and  by  the  invigourating  spring  air.  In 
front  of  the  house  of  Rosa  Schiavona,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Portasale,  Binchi-Banche  made  a 
sign  to  stop. 

"This  is  the  place,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  very  humble  one-story  house  with  one 
row  of  windows,  and  the  lower  walls  were  covered 
with  inscriptions  and  ugly  figures.  A  row  of  bats 
pinned  on  the  arch  formed  an  ornament,  and  a 
lantern  covered  with  reddish  paper  hung  under 
the  window. 

This  place  was  the  abode  of  a  sort  of  ad- 
venturous, roving  people.  They  slept  mixed  to- 
gether, the  big  and  corpulent  truckman,  Letto 
Manoppello,  the  gipsies  of  Sulmona,  horse- 
traders,  boiler-menders,  turners  of  Bucchianico, 
women  of  the  city  of  Sant'  Angelo,  women  of 
wicked  lives,  the  bag-pipers  of  Atina,  moun- 
taineers, bear-tamers,  charlatans,  pretended  men- 
dicants, thieves,  and  fortune-tellers.  Binchi- 
Banche  acted  as  a  go-between  for  all  that  rabble, 
and  was  a  great  protege  of  the  house  of  Rosa 
Schiavona. 


64  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

When  the  latter  heard  the  noise  of  the  new- 
comers, she  came  out  upon  the  threshold.  She 
looked  like  a  being  generated  by  a  dwarf  and  a 
sow.     Very  diffidently  she  put  the  question: 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

* 'There  is  a  fellow  here  who  wants  lodging  for 
his  beasts,  Donna  Rosa." 

"How  many  beasts?" 

"Three,  as  you  see,  Donna  Rosa — a  monkey, 
an  ass,  and  a  camel." 

The  crowd  was  paying  no  attention  to  the 
dialogue.  Some  of  them  were  exciting  Zavali, 
others  were  feeling  of  Barbara's  legs,  commenting 
on  the  callous  spots  on  his  knees  and  chest.  Two 
guards  of  the  salt  store-houses,  who  had  travelled 
to  the  sea-ports  of  Asia  Minor,  were  telling  in  a 
loud  voice  of  the  wonderful  properties  of  the 
camel,  talking  confusedly  of  having  seen  some  of 
them  dancing,  while  carrying  upon  their  necks  a  lot 
of  half-naked  musicians  and  women  of  the  Orient. 
The  listeners,  greedy  to  hear  these  marvellous 
tales,  cried: 

"Tell  us  some  more!  Tell  us  some  morel" 
They  stood  around  the  story-tellers  in  attentive 
silence,  listening  with  dilated  eyes. 

Then  one  of  the  guards,  an  old  man  whose  eye- 
lids were  drawn  up  by  the  wind  of  the  sea,  began 


THE  RETURN  OF  TURLENDANA        65 

to  tell  of  the  Asiatic  countries,  and  as  he  went  on, 
his  imagination  became  excited  by  the  stories  which 
he  told,  and  his  tales  grew  more  wonderful. 

A  sort  of  mysterious  softness  seemed  to  pene- 
trate the  sunset.  In  the  minds  of  the  listeners,  the 
lands  which  were  described  to  them  rose  vividly 
before  their  imaginations  in  all  their  strange 
splendour.  Across  the  arch  of  the  Porta,  which 
was  already  in  shadow,  could  be  seen  boats  loaded 
with  salt  rocking  upon  the  river,  the  salt  seeming 
to  absorb  all  the  light  of  the  evening,  giving  the 
boats  the  appearance  of  palaces  of  precious 
crystals.  Through  the  greenish  tinted  heavens 
rose  the  crescent  of  the  moon. 

*'Tell  us  some  more  I  Tell  us  some  more  V^  the 
younger  of  those  assembled  were  crying. 

In  the  meanwhile  Turlendana  had  put  his  beasts 
under  cover  and  supplied  them  with  food.  This 
being  done,  he  had  again  set  forth  with  Binchi- 
Banche,  while  the  people  remained  gathered  about 
the  door  of  the  barn  where  the  head  of  the  camel 
appeared  and  disappeared  behind  the  rock  grat- 
ings. 

On  the  way  Turlendana  asked : 

"Are  there  any  drinking  places  here?'* 

Binchi-Banche  answered  promptly: 


] 


66  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOJVN 

"Yes,  sir,  there  are.'*  Then,  lifting  his  big  black 
hands  he  counted  off  on  his  fingers : 

"The  Inn  of  Speranza,  the  Inn  of  Buono,  the 
Inn  of  Assau,  the  Inn  of  Zarricante,  the  Inn  of  the 
Blind  Woman  of  Turlendana  ..." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  other  calmly. 

Binchl-Banche  raised  his  big,  sharp,  greenish 
eyes. 

"You  have  been  here  before,  sir?" 

Then,  with  the  native  loquacity  of  the  Pescarese 
he  went  on  without  waiting  for  an  answer: 

"The  Inn  of  the  Blind  Woman  is  large,  and 
they  sell  there  the  best  wine.  The  so-called  Blind 
Woman  is  a  woman  who  has  had  four  hus« 
bands  ..." 

He  stopped  to  laugh,  his  yellowish  face 
wrinkling  into  little  folds  as  he  did  so. 

"The  first  husband  was  Turlendana,  a  sailor  on 
board  the  ships  of  the  King  of  Naples,  sailing 
from  India  to  France,  to  Spain,  and  even  as  far 
as  America.  He  was  lost  at  sea,  no  one  knows 
where,  for  the  ship  disappeared  and  nothing  has 
ever  been  heard  from  it  since.  That  was  about 
thirty  years  ago.  Turlendana  had  the  strength  of 
Samson;  he  could  pull  up  an  anchor  with  one 
finger  .  .  .  poor  fellow!  He  who  goes  to  sea  is 
apt  to  have  such  an  end." 


THE  RETURN  OF  TURLENDANA        67 

Turlendana  was  listening  quietly. 

"The  second  husband,  whom  she  married  after 
five  years  of  widowhood,  was  from  Ortona,  a  son 
of  Ferrante,  a  damned  soul,  who  was  In  conspiracy 
with  smugglers  In  Napoleon's  time,  during  the  war 
with  England.  They  smuggled  goods  from  Fran- 
cavilla  up  to  Sllvi  and  Montesilvano — sugar  and 
coffee  from  the  English  boats.  In  the  neighbour- 
hood of  SIlvI  was  a  tower  called  'The  Tower  of 
SaracinI,'  from  which  the  signals  were  given.  As 
the  patrol  passed,  Tlon,  plon,  plon,  plon  1'  came 
out  from  behind  the  trees.  .  .  ."  BInchi-Banche's 
face  lighted  up  at  the  recollection  of  those  times, 
and  he  quite  lost  himself  in  the  pleasure  of  de- 
scribing minutely  all  those  clandestine  operations, 
his  expressive  gestures  and  exclamations  adding 
interest  to  the  tale. 

His  small  body  would  draw  up  and  stretch  out 
to  its  full  height  as  he  proceeded. 

"At  last  the  son  of  Ferrante  was,  while  walking 
along  the  coast  one  night,  shot  in  the  back  by  a 
soldier  of  Murat,  and  killed. 

"The  third  husband  was  TItino  Passacantando, 
who  died  In  his  bed  of  a  pernicious  disease. 

"The  fourth  still  lives,  and  is  called  Verdura, 
a  good  fellow  who  does  not  adulterate  the  wine  of 


I 


68  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

the  inn.  Now,  you  will  have  a  chance  to  try 
some." 

When  they  reached  the  much  praised  inn,  they 
separated. 

^'Goodnight,  sirl" 

*'Good  night!" 

Turlendana  entered  unconcernedly,  unmindful 
of  the  curious  attention  of  the  drinkers  sitting  be- 
side the  long  tables.  Having  asked  for  something 
to  eat,  he  was  conducted  to  an  upper  room  where 
the  tables  were  set  ready  for  supper. 

None  of  the  regular  boarders  of  the  place  were 
yet  in  the  room.  Turlendana  sat  down  and  be- 
gan to  eat,  taking  great  mouthfuls  without  paus- 
ing, his  head  bent  over  his  plate,  like  a  famished 
person.  He  was  almost  wholly  bald,  a  deep  red 
scar  furrowed  his  face  from  forehead  to  cheek, 
his  thick  greyish  beard  extended  to  his  protruding 
cheek  bones,  his  skin,  dark,  dried,  rough,  worn  by 
water  and  sun  and  wrinkled  by  pain,  seemed  not 
to  preserve  any  human  semblance,  his  eyes  stared 
into  the  distance  as  if  petrified  by  impassivity. 

Verdura,  inquisitive,  sat  opposite  him,  staring 
at  the  stranger.  He  was  somewhat  flushed,  his 
face  was  of  a  reddish  colour  veined  with  ver- 
milion like  the  gall  of  oxen.    At  last  he  cried: 

''Where  do  you  come  from?" 


THE  RETURN  OF  TURLENDANA        69 

Turlendana,  without  raising  his  head,  replied 
simply : 

*'I  come  from  far  away." 

"And  where  do  you  go?"  pursued  Verdura. 

"I  remain  here." 

Verdura,  amazed,  was  silent. 

Turlendana  continued  to  lift  the  fishes  from  his 
plate,  one  after  another,  taking  off  their  heads  and 
tails,  and  devouring  them,  chewing  them  up,  bones 
and  all.  After  every  two  or  three  fishes  he  drank 
a  draught  of  wine. 

"Do  you  know  anybody  here?"  Verdura  asked 
with  eager  curiosity. 

"Perhaps,"  replied  the  other  laconically. 

Baffled  by  the  brevity  of  his  interlocutor,  the 
wine  man  grew  silent  again.  Above  the  uproar 
of  the  drinkers  below,  Turlendana's  slow  and 
laboured  mastication  could  be  heard.  Presently 
Verdura  again  ventured  to  open  his  mouth. 

"In  what  countries  is  the  camel  found?  Are 
those  two  humps  natural?  Can  such  a  great, 
strong  beast  ever  be  tamed?" 

Turlendana  allowed  him  to  go  on  without  re- 
plying. 

"Your  name.  Mister?" 

The  man  to  whom  this  question  was  put  raised 


70  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

his  head  from  hi^  plate,  and  answered  simply,  as 
before : 

"I  am  called  Turlendana.'* 

*'What?" 

*Turlendana." 

"Ah  I" 

The  amazement  of  the  Inn  keeper  was  un- 
bounded. A  sort  of  a  vague  terror  shook  his 
innermost  soul. 

"What?    Turlendana  of  this  place?" 

*'0f  this  place." 

Verdura's  big  azure  eyes  dilated  as  he  stared 
at  the  man. 

"Then  you  are  not  dead?" 

"No,  I  am  not  dead." 

"Then  you  are  the  husband  of  Rosalba  Ca- 
tena?" 

"I  am  the  husband  of  Rosalba  Catena." 

"And  now,"  exclaimed  Verdura,  with  a  gesture 
of  perplexity,  "we  are  two  husbands  I" 

"We  are  two!" 

They  remained  silent  for  an  instant.  Turlen- 
dana was  chewing  the  last  bit  of  bread  tranquilly, 
and  through  the  quiet  room  you  could  hear  his 
teeth  crunching  on  it.  Either  from  a  natural 
benignant  simplicity  or  from  a  glorious  fatuity, 
Verdura  was  struck  only  by  the  singularity  of  the 


THE  RETURN  OF  TURLENDANA        71 

case.     A  sudden  impulse  of  merriment  overtook 

him,  bubbling  out  spontaneously: 

"Let  us  go  to  Rosalba !  Let  us  go !  Let  us  go !" 
Taking  the  newcomer  by  the  arm,  he  conducted 

him  through  the  group  of  drinkers,  waving  his 

arms,  and  crying  out: 

"Here  is  Turlendana,  Turlendana  the  sailor! 

The  husband  of  my  wife !    Turlendana,  who  is  not 

dead !  Here  is  Turlendana  I  Here  is  Turlendana  1" 


IV 
TURLENDANA  DRUNK 

THE   last   glass   had  been   drunk,    and  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning  was  about  to  strike 
from  the  tower  clock  of  the  City  Hall. 

Said  Biagio  Quaglia,  his  voice  thick  with  wine, 
as  the  strokes  sounded  through  the  silence  of  the 
night  filled  with  clear  moonlight : 

*'Well!     Isn't  it  about  time  for  us  to  go?" 

Ciavola,  stretched  half  under  the  bench,  moved 
his  long  runner's  legs  from  time  to  time,  mumbling 
about  clandestine  hunts  in  the  forbidden  grounds 
of  the  Marquis  of  Pescara,  as  the  taste  of  wild 
hare  came  up  In  his  throat,  and  the  wind  brought 
to  his  nostrils  the  resinous  odour  of  the  pines  of 
the  sea  grove. 

Said  Biagio  Quaglia,  giving  the  blond  hunter  a 
kick,  and  making  a  motion  to  rise : 

''Let  us  go." 

Ciavola  with  an  effort  rose,  swaying  uncertainly, 
thin  and  slender  like  a  hunting  hound. 

72 


TURLENDANA  DRUNK  73 

"Let  us  go,  as  they  are  pursuing  us,"  he  an- 
swered, raising  his  hand  high  in  a  motion  of  as- 
sent, thinking  perhaps  of  the  passage  of  birds 
through  the  air. 

Turlendana  also  moved,  and  seeing  behind  him 
the  wine  woman,  Zarricante,  with  her  flushed  raw 
cheeks  and  her  protruding  chest,  he  tried  to  em- 
brace her.  But  Zarricante  fled  from  his  embrace, 
hurling  at  him  words  of  abuse. 

On  the  doorsill,  Turlendana  asked  his  friends 
for  their  company  and  support  through  a  part  of 
the  road.  But  Biagio  Quaglia  and  Ciavola,  who 
were  indeed  a  fine  pair,  turned  their  backs  on  him 
jestingly,  and  went  away  in  the  luminous  moon- 
light. 

Then  Turlendana  stopped  to  look  at  the  moon, 
which  was  round  and  red  as  the  face  of  a  friar. 
Everything  around  was  silent  and  the  rows  of 
houses  reflected  the  white  light  of  the  moon.  A 
cat  was  mewing  this  May  night  upon  a  door  step. 
The  man,  in  his  Intoxicated  state,  feeling  a  pe- 
culiarly tender  inclination,  put  out  his  hand  slowly 
and  uncertainly  to  caress  the  animal,  but  the  beast, 
being  somewhat  wild,  took  a  jump  and  disap- 
peared. 

Seeing  a  stray  dog  approaching,  he  attempted 
to  pour  out  upon  It  the  wealth  of  his  loving  Im- 


I 


74  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

pulses;  the  dog,  however,  paid  no  attention  to  his 
calls,  and  disappeared  around  the  corner  of  a  cross 
street,  gnawing  a  bone.  The  noise  of  his  teeth 
could  be  heard  plainly  through  the  silence  of  the 
night. 

Soon  after,  the  door  of  the  inn  was  closed  and 
Turlendana  was  left  standing  alone  under  the  full 
moon,  obscured  by  the  shadows  of  rolling  clouds. 
His  attention  was  struck  by  the  rapid  moving  of 
all  surrounding  objects.  Everything  fled  away 
from  him.  What  had  he  done  that  they  should 
fly  away? 

With  unsteady  steps,  he  moved  towards  the 
river.  The  thought  of  that  universal  flight  as  he 
moved  along,  occupied  profoundly  his  brain, 
changed  as  it  was  by  the  fumes  of  the  wine.  He 
met  two  other  street  dogs,  and  as  an  experiment, 
approached  them,  but  they  too  slunk  away  with 
their  tails  between  their  legs,  keeping  close  to  the 
wall  and  when  they  had  gone  some  little  distance, 
they  began  to  bark.  Suddenly,  from  every  direc- 
tion, from  Bagno  da  Sant'  Agostino,  from  Arsen- 
ale,  from  Pescheria,  from  all  the  lurid  and 
obscure  places  around,  the  roving  dogs  ran  up,  as 
though  in  answer  to  a  trumpet  call  to  battle  and 
the  aggressive  chorus  of  the  famishing  tribe 
ascended  to  the  moon. 


TURLENDANA  DRUNK  75 

Turlendana  was  stupefied,  while  a  sort  of  vague 
uneasiness  awoke  in  his  soul  and  he  went  on  his 
way  a  little  more  quickly,  stumbling  over  the  rough 
places  in  the  ground.  When  he  reached  the  corner 
of  the  coopers,  where  the  large  barrels  of  Zazetta 
were  piled  in  whitish  heaps  like  monuments,  he 
heard  the  heavy,  regular  breathing  of  a  beast.  As 
the  impression  of  the  hostility  of  all  beasts  had 
taken  a  hold  on  him,  with  the  obstinacy  of  a 
drunken  man,  he  moved  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound,  that  he  might  make  another  experiment. 

Within  a  low  barn  the  three  old  horses  of 
Michelangelo  were  breathing  with  difficulty  above 
their  manger.  They  were  decrepit  beasts  who 
had  worn  out  their  lives  dragging  through  the  road 
of  Chieti,  twice  every  day,  a  huge  stage-coach 
filled  with  merchants  and  merchandise.  Under 
their  brown  hair,  worn  off  in  places  by  the  rubbing 
of  the  harness,  their  ribs  protruded  like  so  many 
dried  shingles  through  a  ruined  roof.  Their  front 
legs  were  so  bent  that  their  knees  were  scarcely 
perceptible,  their  backs  were  ragged  like  the  teeth 
of  a  saw,  and  their  skinny  necks,  upon  which 
scarcely  a  vestige  of  mane  was  left,  drooped 
towards  the  ground. 

A  wooden  railing  inside  barred  the  door. 

Turlendana  began  encouragingly: 


76  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

**Ush,  ush,  ushi    Ush,  ush,  ushi" 

The  horses  did  not  move,  but  breathed  together 
In  a  human  way.  The  outlines  of  their  bodies  ap- 
peared dim  and  confused  through  the  bluish 
shadow  within  the  barn,  and  the  exhalations  of 
their  breath  blent  with  that  of  the  manure. 

"Ush,  ush,  ush!"  pursued  Turlendana  In  a 
lamenting  tone,  as  when  he  used  to  urge  Barbara 
to  drink.    Again  the  horses  did  not  stir,  and  again : 

"Ush,  ush,  ush !  Ush,  ush,  ush !"  One  of  the 
horses  turned  and  placed  his  big  deformed  head 
upon  the  railing,  looking  with  eyes  which  seemed 
In  the  moonlight  as  though  filled  with  troubled 
water.  The  lower  skin  of  the  jaw  hung  flaccid, 
disclosing  the  gums.  At  every  breath  the  nostrils 
palpitated,  emitting  moist  breath,  the  nostrils  clos- 
ing at  times,  and  opening  again  to  give  forth  a 
little  cloud  of  air  bubbles  like  yeast  in  a  state  of 
fermentation. 

At  the  sight  of  that  senile  head,  the  drunken 
man  came  to  his  senses.  Why  had  he  filled  him- 
self with  wine,  he,  usually  so  sober?  For  a  mo- 
ment, in  the  midst  of  his  forgetful  drowsiness,  the 
shape  of  his  dying  camel  reappeared  before  his 
eyes,  lying  on  the  ground  with  his  long  inert  neck 
stretched  out  on  the  straw,  his  whole  body  shaken 
from  time  to  time  by  coughing,  while  with  every 


TURLENDANA  DRUNK  77 

moan  the  bloated  stomach  produced  a  sound  such 
as  Issues  from  a  barrel  half  filled  with  water. 

A  wave  of  pity  and  compassion  swept  over  the 
man,  as  before  him  rose  this  vision  of  the  agony 
of  the  camel,  shaken  by  strange,  hoarse  sobs  which 
brought  forth  a  moan  from  the  enormous  dying 
carcass,  the  painful  movements  of  the  neck,  rising 
for  an  instant  to  fall  back  again  heavily  upon  the 
straw  with  a  deep,  indistinct  sound,  the  legs  mov- 
ing as  if  trying  to  run,  the  tense  tremor  of  the 
ears,  and  the  fixity  of  the  eyeballs,  from  which 
the  sight  seemed  to  have  departed  before  the  rest 
of  the  faculties.  All  this  suffering  came  back 
clearly  to  his  memory,  vivid  in  Its  almost  human 
misery. 

He  leaned  against  the  railing  and  opened  his 
mouth  mechanically  to  again  speak  to  Michelan- 
gelo's horse : 

"Ush,  ush,  ushi  Ush,  ush,  ush!''  Then  Michel- 
angelo,  who  from  his  bed  had  heard  the  disturb- 
ance, jumped  to  the  window  above  and  began  to 
swear  violently  at  the  troublesome  disturber  of 
his  night's  rest. 

*'You  damned  rascal  I  Go  and  drown  yourself 
in  the  Pescara  River!  Go  away  from  here.  Go, 
or  I  will  get  a  gun  I     You  rascal,  to  come  and 


78  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

wake  up  sleeping  people !  You  drunkard,  go  on ; 
go  away!" 

Turlendana,  staggering,  started  again  towards 
the  river.  When  at  the  cross-roads  by  the  fruit 
market,  he  saw  a  group  of  dogs  in  a  loving  as- 
sembly. As  the  man  approached,  the  group  of 
canines  dispersed,  running  towards  Bagno.  From 
the  alley  of  Gesidio  came  out  another  horde  of 
dogs,  who  set  off  in  the  direction  of  Bastioni. 

All  of  the  country  of  Pescara,  bathed  in  the 
sweet  light  of  the  full  moon  of  the  springtime, 
was  the  scene  of  the  fights  of  amorous  canines. 
The  mastiff  of  Madrigale,  chained  to  watch  over 
a  slaughtered  ox,  occasionally  made  his  deep  voice 
heard,  and  was  answered  by  a  chorus  of  other 
voices.  Occasionally  a  solitary  dog  would  pass 
on  the  run  to  the  scene  of  a  fight.  From  within 
the  houses,  the  howls  of  the  imprisoned  dogs  could 
be  heard. 

Now  a  still  stranger  trouble  took  hold  upon  the 
brain  of  the  drunken  man.  In  front  of  him,  be- 
hind him,  around  him,  the  imaginary  flight  of 
things  began  to  take  place  again  more  rapidly 
than  before.  He  moved  forward,  and  everything 
moved  away  from  him,  the  clouds,  the  trees,  the 
stones,  the  river  banks,  the  poles  of  the  boats,  the 
very  houses, — all  retreated  at  his  approach.    This 


TURLENDANA  DRUNK  79 

evident  repulsion  and  universal  reprobation  filled 
him  with  terror.  He  halted.  His  spirit  grew  de- 
pressed. Through  his  disordered  brain  a  sudden 
thought  ran.  "The  fox!"  Even  that  fox  of  a 
Ciavola  did  not  wish  to  remain  with  him  longer! 
His  terror  increased.  His  limbs  trembled  violent- 
ly. However,  impelled  by  this  thought,  he  de- 
scended among  the  tender  willow  trees  and  the 
high  grass  of  the  shore. 

The  bright  moon  scattered  over  all  things  a 
snowy  serenity.  The  trees  bent  peacefully  over 
the  bank,  as  though  contemplating  the  running 
water.  Almost  it  seemed  as  though  a  soft,  melan- 
choly breath  emanated  from  the  somnolence  of  the 
river  beneath  the  moon.  The  croaking  of  frogs 
sounded  clearly.  Turlendana  crouched  among 
the  plants,  almost  hidden.  His  hands  trembled  on 
his  knees.  Suddenly  he  felt  something  alive  and 
moving  under  him;  a  frog!  He  uttered  a  cry.  He 
rose  and  began  to  run,  staggering,  amongst  the 
willow  trees  impeding  his  way.  In  his  uneasiness 
of  spirit,  he  felt  terrified  as  though  by  some  super- 
natural occurrence. 

Stumbling  over  a  rough  place  In  the  ground,  he 
fell  on  his  stomach,  his  face  pressed  into  the  grass. 
He  got  up  with  much  difficulty,  and  stood  looking 
around  him  at  the  trees.     The  silvery  silhouette 


8o  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

of  the  poplars  rose  motionless  through  the  silent 
air,  making  their  tops  seem  unusually  tall.  The 
shores  of  the  river  would  vanish  endlessly,  as  if 
they  were  something  unreal,  like  shadows  of  things 
seen  in  dreams.  Upon  the  right  side,  the  rocks 
shone  resplendently,  like  crystals  of  salt,  shadowed 
at  times  by  the  moving  clouds  passing  softly  over- 
head like  azure  veils.  Further  on  the  wood  broke 
the  horizon  line.  The  scent  of  the  wood  and  the 
soft  breath  of  the  sea  were  blended. 

*'0h,  Turlendana !  Ooooh!"  a  clear  voice  cried 
out. 

Turlendana  turned  In  amazement. 

"Oh,  Turlendana,  Turlendanaaaaa !" 

It  was  BInchl-Banche,  who  came  up,  accom- 
panied by  a  customs  officer,  through  the  path  used 
by  the  sailors  through  the  willow-tree  thicket. 

"Where  are  you  going  at  this  time  of  night? 
To  weep  over  your  camel?"  asked  BInchl-Banche 
as  he  approached. 

Turlendana  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was 
grasping  his  trousers  with  one  hand;  his  knees 
were  bent  forward  and  his  face  wore  a  strange  ex- 
pression of  stupidity,  while  he  stammered  so  piti- 
fully that  BInchl-Banche  and  the  customs  officer 
broke  out  into  boisterous  laughter. 

"Go  on !   Go  on!"  exclaimed  the  wrinkled  little 


TURLENDANA  DRUNK  8i 

man,  grasping  the  drunken  man  by  the  shoulders 
and  pushing  him  towards  the  seashore.  Turlen- 
dana  moved  forward.  BInchl-Banche  and  the 
customs  officer  followed  him  at  a  little  distance, 
laughing  and  speaking  In  low  voices. 

He  reached  the  place  where  the  verdure  termi- 
nated and  the  sand  began.  The  grumbling  of  the 
sea  at  the  mouth  of  the  Pescara  could  be  heard. 
On  a  level  stretch  of  sand,  stretched  out  between 
the  dunes,  Turlendana  ran  against  the  corpse  of 
Barbara,  which  had  not  yet  been  buried.  The  large 
body  was  skinned  and  bleeding,  the  plump  parts 
of  the  back,  which  were  uncovered,  appeared  of  a 
yellowish  colour;  upon  his  legs  the  skin  was  still 
hanging  with  all  the  hair;  there  were  two  enormous 
callous  spots;  within  his  mouth  his  angular  teeth 
were  visible,  curving  over  the  upper  jaw  and  the 
white  tongue ;  for  some  unknown  reason  the  under 
lip  was  cut,  while  the  neck  resembled  the  body  of 
a  serpent. 

At  the  appearance  of  this  ghastly  sight,  Turlen- 
dana burst  Into  tears,  shaking  his  head,  and  moan- 
ing In  a  strange  unhuman  way: 

**Oho!  Oho!  Ohor 

In  the  act  of  lying  down  upon  the  camel,  he  fell. 
He  attempted  to  rise,  but  the  stupor  caused  by  the 
wine  overcame  him,  and  he  lost  consciousness. 


82  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Seeing  Turlendana  fall,  BInchi-Banche  and  the 
customs  officer  came  over  to  him.  Taking  him, 
one  by  the  head  and  the  other  by  the  feet,  they 
lifted  him  up  and  laid  him  full  length  upon  the 
body  of  Barbara,  In  the  position  of  a  loving  em- 
brace.    Laughing  at  their  deed,  they  departed. 

And  thus  Turlendana  lay  upon  the  camel  until 
the  sun  rose. 


THE  GOLD  PIECES 

PASSACANTANDO  entered,  rattling  the 
hanging  glass  doors  violently,  roughly  shook 
the  rain-drops  from  his  shoulders,  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  with  disdainful  unconcern 
looked  around  the  room. 

In  the  tavern  the  smoke  of  the  tobacco  was  like 
a  bluish  cloud,  through  which  one  could  discern 
the  faces  of  those  who  were  drinking:  women  of 
bad  repute;  Pachio,  the  invalided  soldier,  whose 
right  eye,  affected  with  some  repulsive  disease,  was 
covered  by  a  greasy  greenish  band;  BInchi-Banche, 
the  domestic  of  the  customs  officers,  a  small,  sturdy 
man  with  a  surly,  yellow-hued  face  like  a  lemon 
without  juice,  with  a  bent  back  and  his  thin 
legs  thrust  Into  boots  which  reached  to  his  knees ; 
Magnasangue,  the  go-between  of  the  soldiers,  the 
friend  of  comedians,  of  jugglers,  of  mountebanks, 
of  fortune-tellers,  of  tamers  of  bears, — of  all  that 
ravenous    and    rapacious    rabble    which    passes 

83 


84  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

through  the  towns  to  snatch  from  the  Idle  and 
curious  people  a  few  pennies. 

Then,  too,  there  were  the  belles  of  the  Floren- 
tlno  Hall,  three  or  four  women  faded  from  dis- 
sipation, their  cheeks  painted  brick  colour,  their 
eyes  voluptuous,  their  mouths  flaccid  and  almost 
bluish  In  colour  like  over-ripe  figs. 

Passacantando  crossed  the  room,  and  seated 
himself  between  the  women  Pica  and  Peppuccia  on 
a  bench  against  the  wall,  which  was  covered  with 
indecent  figures  and  writing.  He  was  a  slender 
young  fellow,  rather  effeminate,  with  a  very  pale 
face  from  which  protruded  a  nose  thick,  rapacious, 
bent  greatly  to  one  side ;  his  ears  sprang  from  his 
head  like  two  Inflated  paper  bags,  one  larger  than 
the  other;  his  curved,  protruding  lips  were  very 
red,  and  always  had  a  small  ball  of  whitish  saliva 
at  the  corners.  Over  his  carefully  combed  hair 
he  wore  a  soft  cap,  flattened  through  long  use.  A 
tuft  of  his  hair,  turned  up  like  a  hook,  curled  down 
over  his  forehead  to  the  roots  of  his  nose,  while 
another  curled  over  his  temple.  A  certain  licen- 
tiousness was  expressed  in  every  gesture,  every 
move,  and  in  the  tones  of  his  voice  and  his  glances. 

"Ohe,"  he  cried,  *Voman  Africana,  a  goblet  of 
wine !"  beating  the  table  with  his  clay  pipe,  which 
broke  from  the  force  of  the  blow. 


THE  GOLD  PIECES  85 

The  woman  Africana,  the  mistress  of  the  Inn, 
left  the  bar  and  came  forward  towards  the  table, 
waddling  because  of  her  extreme  corpulence,  and 
placed  In  front  of  Passacantando  a  glass  filled  to 
the  brim  with  wine.  She  looked  at  him  as  she  did 
so  with  eyes  full  of  loving  entreaty. 

Passacantando  suddenly  flung  his  arm  around 
the  neck  of  Peppuccia,  forced  her  to  drink  from 
the  goblet,  and  then  thrust  his  lips  against  hers. 
Peppuccia  laughed,  disentangling  herself  from  the 
arms  of  Passacantando,  her  laughter  causing  the 
unswallowed  wine  to  spurt  from  her  mouth  Into 
his  face. 

The  woman  Africana  grew  livid.  She  withdrew 
behind  the  bar,  where  the  sharp  words  of  Pep- 
puccia and  Pica  reached  her  ears.  The  glass  door 
opened,  and  Fiorentino  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
hold,  all  bundled  up  In  a  cloak,  like  the  villain  of 
a  cheap  novel. 

■ 'Well,  girls,"  he  cried  out  In  a  hoarse  voice,  *'It 
Is  time  for  you  to  go."  Peppuccia,  Pica,  and  the 
others  rose  from  their  seats  beside  the  men  and 
followed  their  master. 

It  was  raining  hard,  and  the  Square  of  Bagno 
was  transformed  Into  a  muddy  lake.  Pachio, 
Magnasangue,  and  the  others  left  one  after  an- 
other until  only  Binche-Banche,  stretched  under  the 


86  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

table  In  the  stupor  of  Intoxication,  remained.  The 
smoke  In  the  room  gradually  grew  less,  while  a 
half-plucked  dove  pecked  from  the  floor  the  scat- 
tered crumbs. 

As  Passacantando  was  about  to  rise,  Afrlcana 
moved  slowly  towards  him,  her  unshapely  figure 
undulating  as  she  walked,  her  full-moon  face 
wrinkled  into  a  grotesque  and  affectionate  grimace. 
Upon  her  face  were  several  moles  with  small 
bunches  of  hair  growing  out  from  them,  a  thick 
shadow  covered  her  upper  lip  and  her  cheeks. 
Her  short,  coarse,  and  curling  hair  formed  a  sort 
of  helmet  on  her  head;  her  thick  eyebrows  met  at 
the  top  of  her  flat  nose,  so  that  she  looked  like  a 
creature  affected  with  dropsy  and  elephantiasis. 

When  she  reached  Passacantando,  she  grasped 
his  hands  In  order  to  detain  him. 

**0h,  Gluva !  What  do  you  want?  What  have 
I  done  to  you?'* 

"You?    Nothing." 

*'Why  then  do  you  cause  me  such  suffering  and 
torment?" 

*'I?  I  am  surprised!  .  .  .  Good  night  I  I 
have  no  time  to  lose  just  now,"  and  with  a  brutal 
gesture,  he  started  to  go.  But  Afrlcana  threw 
herself  upon  him,  pressing  his  arms,  and  putting 
her  face  against  his,  leaning  upon  him  with  her 


THE  GOLD  PIECES  87 

full  weight,  with  a  passion  so  uncontrolled  and 
terrible  that  Passacantando  was  frightened. 

"What  do  you  want?  What  do  you  want? 
Tell  me!  What  do  you  want?  Why  do  I  do 
this?  I  hold  you!  Stay  here!  Stay  with  me! 
Don't  make  me  die  of  longing;  don't  drive  me 
mad!  What  for?  Come, — take  everything  you 
find  .  .  .  " 

She  drew  him  towards  the  bar,  opened  the 
drawer,  and  with  one  gesture  offered  him  every- 
thing it  contained.  In  the  greasy  till  were  scat- 
tered some  copper  coins,  and  a  few  shining  silver 
ones,  the  whole  amounting  to  perhaps  five  lire. 

Passacantando,  without  saying  a  word,  picked 
up  the  coins  and  began  to  count  them  slowly  upon 
the  bar,  his  mouth  showing  an  expression  of  dis- 
gust. Africana  looked  at  the  coins  and  then  at 
the  face  of  the  man,  breathing  hard,  like  a  tired 
beast.  One  heard  the  tinkling  of  the  coins  as  they 
fell  upon  the  bar,  the  rough  snoring  of  Binchi- 
Banche,  the  soft  pattering  of  the  dove  in  the  midst 
of  the  continuous  sound  of  the  rain  and  the  river 
down  below  the  Bagno  and  through  the  Bandiera. 

*'Those  are  not  enough,"  Passacantando  said  at 
last.  "I  must  have  more  than  those;  bring  out 
some  more,  or  I  will  go." 

He  had  crushed  his  cap  down  over  his  head,  and 


88  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

from  beneath  his  forehead  with  its  curling  tuft  of 
hair,  his  whitish  eyes,  greedy  and  impudent,  looked 
at  Africana  attentively,  fascinating  her. 

"I  have  no  more;  you  have  seen  all  there  is. 
Take  all  that  you  find  ..."  stammered  Africana 
in  a  caressing  and  supplicating  voice,  her  double 
chin  quivering  and  her  lips  trembling,  while  the 
tears  poured  from  her  piggish  eyes. 

*'Well,"  said  Passacantando  softly,  bending 
over  her,  "well,  do  you  think  I  don't  know  that 
your  husband  has  some  gold  pieces?" 

*'Oh,  Giovanni!  .  .  .  how  can  I  get  them?" 
"Go  and  take  them,  at  once.     I  will  wait  for 
you  here.     Your  husband  is  asleep,  now  is  the 
time.     Go,  or  you'll  not  see  me  any  more,  in  the 
name  of  Saint  Antony!" 

"Oh,  Giovanni!  ...  I  am  afraid!" 

"What?    Fear  or  no  fear,  I  am  going;  let  us 

go."    , 

Africana  trembled;  she  pointed  to  Binchi- 
Banche  still  stretched  under  the  table  in  a  heavy 
sleep. 

"Close  the  door  first,"  she  said  submissively. 

Passacantando  roused  Binchi-Banche  with  a 
kick,  and  dragged  him,  howling  and  shaking  with 
terror,  out  into  the  mud  and  slush.  He  came  back 
and  closed  the  door.    The  red  lantern  that  hung 


THE  GOLD  PIECES  89 

on  one  of  the  shutters  threw  a  rosy  light  into  the 
tavern,  leaving  the  heavy  arches  in  deep  shadow, 
and  giving  the  stairway  in  the  angle  a  mysterious 
look. 

"Come !  Let  us  go !"  said  Passacantando  again 
to  the  still  trembling  Africana. 

They  slowly  ascended  the  dark  stairway  in  the 
corner  of  the  room,  the  woman  going  first,  the 
man  following  close  behind.  At  the  top  of  the 
stairway  they  emerged  into  a  low  room,  planked 
with  beams.  In  a  small  niche  in  the  wall  was  a 
blue  Majolica  Madonna,  in  front  of  which  burned, 
for  a  vow,  a  light  in  a  glass  filled  with  water  and 
oil.  The  other  walls  were  covered  with  a  number 
of  torn  paper  pictures,  of  as  many  colours  as 
leprosy.    A  distressing  odour  filled  the  room. 

The  two  thieves  advanced  cautiously  towards 
the  marital  bed,  upon  which  lay  the  old  man, 
buried  in  slumber,  breathing  with  a  sort  of  hoarse 
hiss  through  his  toothless  gums  and  his  dilated 
nose,  damp  from  the  use  of  tobacco,  his  head 
turned  upon  one  cheek,  resting  on  a  striped  cotton 
pillow.  Above  his  open  mouth,  which  looked  like 
a  cut  made  in  a  rotten  pumpkin,  rose  his  stiff 
moustache;  one  of  his  eyes,  half  opened,  resembled 
the  turned  over  ear  of  a  dog,  filled  with  hair,  cov- 
ered with  blisters ;  the  veins  stood  out  boldly  upon 


90  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

his  bare  emaciated  arm  which  lay  outside  the  cov- 
erlet; his  crooked  fingers,  habitually  grasping, 
clutched  the  counterpane. 

Now,  this  old  fellow  had  for  a  long  time 
possessed  two  twenty-franc  pieces,  which  had 
been  left  him  by  some  miserly  relative;  these  he 
guarded  jealously,  keeping  them  In  the  tobacco  In 
his  horn  snuff-box,  as  some  people  do  musk  incense. 
There  lay  the  shining  pieces  of  gold,  and  the  old 
man  would  take  them  out,  look  at  them  fondly, 
feel  of  them  lovingly  between  his  fingers,  as  the 
passion  of  avarice  and  the  lust  of  possession  grew 
within  him. 

Africana  approached  slowly,  with  bated  breath, 
while  Passacantando,  with  commanding  gestures, 
urged  her  to  the  theft.  There  was  a  noise 
below;  both  stopped.  The  half-plucked  dove, 
limping,  fluttered  to  Its  nest  In  an  old  slipper  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  but  In  settling  Itself,  it  made 
some  noise.  The  man,  with  a  quick,  brutal  mo- 
tion, snatched  up  the  bird  and  choked  It  In  his  fist. 

"Is  It  there?"  he  asked  of  Africana. 

"Yes,  it  Is  there,  under  the  pillow,"  she  an- 
swered, sliding  her  hand  carefully  under  the  pillow 
as  she  spoke.  The  old  man  moved  In  his  sleep, 
sighing  Involuntarily,  while  between  his  eyelids  ap- 
peared a  little  rim  of  the  whites  of  his  eyes.  Then 


THE  GOLD  PIECES  91 

he  fell  back  in  the  heavy  stupor  of  senile  drowsi- 
ness. 

Africana,  in  this  crisis,  suddenly  became  auda- 
cious, pushed  her  hand  quickly  forward,  grasped 
the  tobacco  box  and  rushed  towards  the  stairs, 
descending  with  Passacantando  just  behind  her. 

"Lord!  Lord!  See  what  I  have  done  for 
you !"  she  exclaimed,  throwing  herself  upon  him. 
With  shaking  hands,  they  started  together  to  open 
the  snuff-box  and  look  among  the  tobacco  for  the 
gold  pieces.  The  pungent  odour  of  the  tobacco 
arose  to  their  nostrils,  and  both,  as  they  felt  the 
desire  to  sneeze,  were  seized  with  a  strong  Im- 
pulse to  laugh.  In  endeavouring  to  repress  their 
sneezes,  they  staggered  against  one  another,  push- 
ing and  wavering.  But  suddenly  an  Indistinct 
growling  was  heard,  then  hoarse  shouts  broke 
forth  from  the  room  above,  and  the  old  man 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  His  face  was 
livid  In  the  red  light  of  the  lantern,  his  form  thin 
and  emaciated,  his  legs  bare,  his  shirt  in  rags. 
He  looked  down  at  the  thieving  couple,  and, 
waving  his  arms  like  a  damned  soul,  cried : 

"The  gold  pieces !  The  gold  pieces !  The  gold 
pieces!" 


VI 

SORCERY 

WHEN  seven  consecutive  sneezes  of  Mastro 
Peppe  De  Sieri,  called  La  Brevetta,  re- 
sounded loudly  in  the  square  of  the  City  Hall,  all 
the  inhabitants  of  Pescara  would  seat  themselves 
around  their  tables  and  begin  their  meal.  Soon 
after  the  bell  would  strike  twelve,  and  simultane- 
ously, the  people  would  become  very  hilarious. 

For  many  years  La  Brevetta  had  given  this  joy- 
ful signal  to  the  people  daily,  and  the  fame  of  his 
marvellous  sneezing  spread  through  all  the  coun- 
try around,  and  also  through  the  adjoining  coun- 
tries. His  memory  still  lives  In  the  minds  of  the 
people,  for  he  originated  a  proverb  which  will  en- 
dure for  many  years  to  come. 


Mastro  Peppe  La   Brevetta  was   a  plebeian, 
somewhat   corpulent,  thick-set,   and   clumsy;   his 

92 


SORCERY  93 

face  shining  with  a  prosperous  stupidity,  his 
eyes  reminded  one  of  the  eyes  of  a  sucking  calf, 
while  his  hands  and  feet  were  of  extraordinary 
dimensions.  His  nose  was  long  and  fleshy,  his 
jaw-bones  very  strong  and  mobile,  and  when  un- 
dergoing a  fit  of  sneezing,  he  looked  like  one  of 
those  sea-lions  whose  fat  bodies,  as  sailors  relate, 
tremble  all  over  like  a  jelly-pudding. 

Like  the  sea-lions,  too,  he  was  possessed  of  a 
slow  and  lazy  motion,  their  ridiculously  awkward 
attitudes,  and  their  exceeding  fondness  for  sleep. 
He  could  not  pass  from  the  shade  to  the  sun,  nor 
from  the  sun  to  the  shade  without  an  Irrepressible 
impulse  of  air  rushing  through  his  mouth  and 
nostrils.  The  noise  produced,  especially  in  quiet 
spots,  could  be  heard  at  a  great  distance,  and  as  It 
occurred  at  regular  Intervals,  it  came  to  be  a  sort 
of  time-piece  for  the  citizens  of  the  town. 

In  his  youth  Mastro  Peppe  had  kept  a  macaroni 
shop,  and  among  the  strings  of  dough,  the 
monotonous  noise  of  the  mills  and  wheels.  In  the 
mildness  of  the  flour-dusty  air,  he  had  grown  to 
a  placid  stupidity.  Having  reached  maturity,  he 
had  married  a  certain  Donna  Pelagia  of  the 
Commune  of  Castelll,  and  abandoning  his  early 
trade,  he  had  since  that  time  dealt  In  terra  cotta 
and  Majolica  ware, — vases,  plates,  pitchers,  and 


94  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

all  the  poor  earthenware  which  the  craftsmen  of 
Castelli  manufactured  for  adorning  the  tables  of 
the  land  of  Abruzzi.  Among  the  simplicity  and 
religiousness  of  those  shapes,  unchanged  for  cen- 
turies, he  lived  in  a  very  simple  way,  sneezing  all 
the  time,  and  as  his  wife  was  a  miserly  creature, 
little  by  little  her  avaricious  spirit  had  communi- 
cated itself  to  him,  until  he  had  grown  Into  her 
penurious  and  miserly  ways. 

Now  Mastro  Peppe  was  the  owner  of  a  piece 
of  land  and  a  small  farm  house,  situated  upon  the 
right  bank  of  the  river,  just  at  the  spot  where  the 
current  of  the  river,  turning,  forms  a  sort  of  green- 
ish amphitheatre.  The  soil  being  well  Irrigated, 
produced  very  abundantly,  not  only  grapes  and 
cereals,  but  especially  large  quantities  of  vege- 
tables. The  harvests  Increased,  and  each  year 
Mastro  Peppe's  pig  grew  fat,  feasting  under  an 
oak  tree  which  dropped  Its  wealth  of  acorns  for 
his  delectation.  Each  year.  In  the  month  of 
January,  La  Brevetta,  with  his  wife,  would  go 
over  to  his  farm,  and  Invoke  the  favour  of  San 
Antonio  to  assist  In  the  killing  and  salting  of  the 

pig- 
One  year  it  happened  that  his  wife  was  some- 
what ill,   and  La   Brevetta   went  alone  to  the 
slaughtering  of  the  beast.     The  pig  was  placed 


SORCERY  95 

upon  a  large  board  and  held  there  by  three  sturdy- 
farm-hands,  while  his  throat  was  cut  with  a  sharp 
knife.  The  grunting  and  squealing  of  the  hog 
resounded  through  the  solitude,  usually  broken 
only  by  the  murmuring  of  the  stream,  then  sud- 
denly the  sounds  grew  less,  and  were  lost  in  the 
gurgling  of  warm  vermilion  blood  which  was  dis- 
gorged from  the  gaping  wound,  and  while  the  body 
was  giving  its  last  convulsive  jerks,  the  new  sun 
was  absorbing  from  the  river  the  moisture  in  the 
form  of  a  silvery  mist.  With  a  sort  of  joyous 
ferocity  La  Brevetta  watched  Lepruccio  burn  with 
a  hot  iron  the  deep  eyes  of  the  pig,  and  rejoiced 
to  hear  the  boards  creak  under  the  weight  of  the 
animal,  thinking  of  the  plentiful  supply  of  lard 
and  the  prospective  hams. 

The  murdered  beast  was  lifted  up  and  sus- 
pended from  a  hook,  shaped  like  a  rustic  pitch- 
fork, and  left  there,  hanging  head  downward. 
Burning  bundles  of  reeds  were  used  by  the  farm- 
hands to  singe  off  the  bristles,  and  the  flames  rose 
almost  invisible  in  the  greater  light  of  the  sun.  At 
length.  La  Brevetta  began  to  scrape  with  a  shining 
blade  the  blackened  surface  of  the  animal's  body, 
while  one  of  the  assistants  poured  boiling  water 
over  it.  Gradually  the  skin  became  clean,  and 
showed  rosy-tinted  as  it  hung  steaming  In  the  sun. 


96  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Lepruccio,  whose  face  was  the  wrinkled  and 
unctuous  face  of  an  old  man,  and  in  whose  ears 
hung  rings,  stood  biting  his  lips  during  the  per- 
formance, working  his  body  up  and  down,  and 
bending  upon  his  knees.  The  work  being  com- 
pleted, Mastro  Peppe  ordered  the  farm-hands  to 
put  the  pig  under  cover.  Never  in  his  life  had 
he  seen  so  large  a  bulk  of  flesh  from  one  pig,  and 
he  regretted  that  his  wife  was  not  there  to  rejoice 
with  him  because  of  It. 

Since  it  was  late  In  the  afternoon,  Matteo 
Purlello  and  Blagio  Quaglia,  two  friends,  were 
returning  from  the  home  of  Don  Bergamino 
Camplone,  a  priest  who  had  gone  Into  business. 

These  two  cronies  were  living  a  gay  life,  given 
to  dissipation,  fond  of  any  kind  of  fun,  very  free 
In  giving  advice,  and  as  they  had  heard  of  the 
killing  of  the  pig,  and  of  the  absence  of  Pelagia, 
hoping  to  meet  with  some  pleasing  adventure, 
they  came  over  to  tantalise  La  Brevetta.  Matteo 
Purlello,  commonly  called  Clavola,  was  a  man  of 
about  forty,  a  poacher,  tall  and  slender,  with 
blond  hair  and  a  yellow  tinted  skin,  with  a  stiff 
and  bristling  moustache.  His  head  was  like  that 
of  a  gilded  wooden  effigy,  from  which  the  gilding 
had  partly  worn  off.  His  eyes  round  and  restless, 
like  those  of  a  race-horse,  shone  like  two  new 


SORCERY  97 

silver  coins,  and  his  whole  person,  usually  clad 
in  a  suit  of  earth  colour,  reminded  one,  in  its  atti- 
tudes and  movements  and  its  swinging  gait,  of  a 
hunting  dog  catching  hares  as  he  ran  across  the 
plain. 

Biagio  Quaglia,  so-called  Ristabilito,  was  under 
medium  height,  a  few  years  younger  than  his 
friend,  with  a  rubicund  face,  of  the  brilliancy  and 
freshness  of  an  almond  tree  In  springtime.  He 
possessed  the  singular  faculty  of  moving  his  ears 
and  the  skin  of  his  forehead  independently,  and 
with  the  skin  of  the  cranium,  as  does  a  monkey. 
By  some  unexplained  contraction  of  muscles,  he 
was  in  this  way  enabled  greatly  to  change  his 
aspect,  and  this,  together  with  a  happy  vocal 
power  of  imitation,  and  the  gift  of  quickly  catch- 
ing the  ridiculous  side  of  men  and  things,  gave 
him  the  power  to  imitate  in  gesture  and  in  word 
the  different  groups  of  Pescara,  so  that  he  was 
greatly  in  demand  as  an  entertainer.  In  this 
happy,  parasitical  mode  of  life,  by  playing  the 
guitar  at  festivals  and  baptismal  ceremonies,  he 
was  prospering.  His  eyes  shone  like  those  of  a 
ferret,  his  head  was  covered  with  a  sort  of  woolly 
hair  like  the  down  on  the  body  of  a  fat,  plucked 
goose  before  it  is  broiled. 


98  TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

When  La  Brevetta  saw  the  two  friends,  he 
greeted  them  gently,  saying: 

*'What  wind  brings  you  here?" 

After  exchanging  pleasant  greetings,  La 
Brevetta  took  the  two  friends  into  the  room 
where,  upon  the  table,  lay  his  wonderful  pig, 
and  asked: 

"What  do  you  think  of  such  a  pig?  Eh? 
What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

The  two  friends  were  contemplating  the  pig 
in  wondering  silence,  and  Ristabilito  made  a 
curious  noise  by  beating  his  palate  with  his 
tongue. 

Ciavola  asked: 

"And  what  do  you  expect  to  do  with  it?" 

"I  expect  to  salt  it,"  answered  La  Brevetta,  his 
voice  full  of  gluttonous  joy  at  the  thought  of  the 
future  delights  of  the  palate. 

*'You  expect  to  salt  it?"  cried  Ristabilito. 
"You  wish  to  salt  it?  Ciavola,  have  you  ever 
seen  a  more  foolish  man  than  this  one?  To  allow 
such  an  opportunity  to  escape!" 

Stupefied,  La  Brevetta  was  looking  with  his 
calf-like  eyes  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other 
of  his  interlocutors. 

"Donna  Pelagia  has  always  made  you  bow  to 
her  will,"  pursued  Ristabilito.     "Now.  when  she 


SORCERY  99 

is  not  here  to  see  you,  sell  the  pig  and  eat  up 
the  money." 

"But  Pelagia? — Pelagia? "  stammered  La 

Brevetta,  in  whose  mind  arose  a  vision  of  his 
wrathful  wife  which  brought  terror  to  his  heart. 

"You  can  tell  her  that  the  pig  was  stolen," 
suggested  the  ever-ready  Ciavola,  with  a  quick 
gesture  of  impatience. 

La  Brevetta  was  horrified. 

"How  could  I  take  home  such  a  story?  Pelagia 
would  not  believe  me.  She  will  throw  me  out  of 
doors!  She  will  beat  me!  You  don't  know 
Pelagia." 

"Uh,  Pelagia !  Uh,  uh,  Donna  Pelagia !"  cried 
the  wily  fellows  derisively.  Then  Ristabilito, 
mimicking  the  lamenting  voice  of  Peppe  and  the 
sharp,  screeching  voice  of  the  woman,  went 
through  a  scene  of  a  comedy  in  which  Peppe  was 
bound  to  a  bench,  and  soundly  spanked  by  his 
wife,  like  a  child. 

Ciavola  witnessed  this  performance  in  great 
glee,  laughing  and  jumping  about  the  pig,  unable 
to  restrain  himself.  The  man  who  was  being 
laughed  at  was  just  at  this  moment  taken  with  a 
sudden  paroxysm  of  sneezing,  and  stood  waving 
his  arms  frantically  toward  Ristabilito,  trying  to 
make  him  stop.     The  din  was  so  great  that  the 


loo        TALES  OF  MY  NATIFE  TOWN 

window  panes  fairly  rattled  as  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun  fell  on  the  three  faces. 

When  Ristabilito  was  silenced  at  last,  Ciavola 
said : 

"Well,  let^sgonowT' 

"If  you  wish  to  stay  to  supper  with  me  ...  " 
Mastro  Peppe  ventured  to  say  between  his  teeth. 

"No,  no,  my  beauty,"  interrupted  Ciarola, 
turning  toward  the  door.  "Remember  me  to 
Pelagia, — and  do  salt  the  pig." 


II 

The  two  friends  walked  together  along  the 
shore  of  the  river.  In  the  distance  the  boats  of 
Barletta,  loaded  with  salt,  scintillated  like  fairy 
palaces  of  crystal;  a  gentle  breeze  was  blowing 
from  Montecorno,  ruffling  the  limpid  surface  of 
the  water. 

"I  say,"  said  Ristabilito  to  Ciavola,  halting, 
"are  we  going  to  steal  that  pig  to-night?" 

"And  how  can  we  do  it?"  asked  Ciavola. 

Said  Ristabilito: 

"I  know  how  to  do  It  if  the  pig  is  left  where 
we  last  saw  it." 

Said  Ciavola: 

"Well,  let  us  doit!    But  after?" 


SORCERY  loi 

Ristabillto  stopped  again,  his  little  eyes  bril- 
liant as  two  carbuncles,  his  flushed  face  wrinkling 
between  the  ears  like  a  fawn's,  in  a  grimace  of 

joy- 

*'I  know  it  .  .  .  "  he  said  laconically. 

In  the  distance,  his  form  showing  black  through 
the  naked  trees  of  the  silver  poplar  grove,  Don 
Bergamino  Camplone  approached  the  two.  As 
soon  as  they  saw  him,  they  hastened  toward  him. 
Noticing  their  joyful  mien,  the  priest,  smiHng, 
asked  them: 

"Well,  what  good  news  have  you?" 

Briefly,  they  communicated  to  him  their  pur- 
pose, to  which  he  delightedly  assented.  Ristabilito 
concluded  softly: 

"We  shall  have  to  use  great  cunning.  You 
know  that  Peppe,  since  he  married  that  ugly 
woman,  Donna  Pelagia,  has  become  a  great  miser, 
but  he  likes  wine  pretty  well.  Now  then  let  us 
get  him  to  accompany  us  to  the  Inn  of  Assau. 
You,  Don  Bergamino,  treat  us  to  drinks  and  pay 
for  everything.  Peppe  will  drink  as  much  as  he 
can  get  without  having  to  pay  anything  for  it, 
and  will  get  intoxicated.  We  can  then  go  about 
our  business  with  no  fear  of  Interruption." 

Ciavola  favoured  this  plan,  and  the  priest 
agreed  to  his  share  In  the  bargain.     Then  all 


102         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

together  returned  to  the  house  of  Peppe,  which 
was  only  about  two  gun-shots  away,  and  as  they 
drew  near,  Ciavola  raised  his  voice: 

*'Hello-o !  La  Brevetta  I  Do  you  wish  to  come 
to  the  Inn  of  Assau?  The  priest  is  here,  and  he 
is  ready  to  pay  for  a  bottle  or  two — Hello  I"  La 
Brevetta  did  not  delay  in  coming  down  the  path, 
and  the  four  set  out  together,  in  the  soft  light  of 
the  new  moon.  The  quiet  was  occasionally 
broken  by  the  caterwauling  of  love-stricken  cats. 
Ristabihto  turned  to  Peppe,  asking  in  jest: 

"Oh,  Peppe,  don't  you  hear  Pelagia  calling 
you?" 

Upon  the  left  side  of  the  river  shone  the  lights 
of  the  Inn  of  Assau,  mirrored  by  the  water.  As 
the  current  of  the  river  was  not  very  strong  here, 
Assau  kept  a  little  boat  to  ferry  over  his  custom- 
ers. In  answer  to  their  calls,  the  boat  approached 
over  the  luminous  water  to  meet  the  new-comers. 
When  they  were  seated  and  engaged  In  friendly 
chat,  Ciavola  with  his  long  legs  began  to  rock 
the  boat,  and  the  creaking  of  the  wood  frightened 
La  Brevetta,  who,  affected  by  the  dampness  of 
the  river,  broke  forth  in  another  paroxysm  of 
sneezing. 

Arrived  at  the  Inn,  seated  around  an  oaken 
table,  the  company  became  more  jovial,  laughing 


SORCERY  103 

and  jesting  loudly,  and  pouring  the  wine  into  their 
victim,  who  found  it  easy  to  let  the  good  red  juice 
of  the  vines,  rich  in  taste  and  colour,  run  down 
his  throat. 

"Another  bottle,"  ordered  Don  Bergamino, 
beating  his  fist  upon  the  table. 

Assau,  an  essentially  rustic,  bow-legged  man, 
brought  in  the  ruby  coloured  bottles.  Ciavola 
sang  with  much  Bacchic  freedom,  striking  the 
rhythm  upon  the  glasses.  La  Brevetta,  his  tongue 
now  thick  and  his  eyes  swimming  from  the  effects 
of  the  wine,  was  holding  the  priest  by  the  sleeve 
to  make  him  listen  to  his  stammering  and  inco- 
herent praises  of  his  wonderful  pig.  Above  their 
heads  lines  of  dried,  greenish  pumpkins  hung  from 
the  ceiling;  the  lamps,  in  which  the  oil  was  getting 
low,  were  smoking. 

It  was  late  at  night  and  the  moon  was  high  in 
the  sky  when  the  friends  again  crossed  the  river. 
In  landing,  Mastro  Peppe  came  near  falHng  in 
the  mud,  for  his  legs  were  unsteady  and  his  eye- 
sight blurred. 

Ristabilito  said: 

*'Let  us  do  a  kind  act.  Let  us  carry  this  fellow 
home." 

Holding  him  up  under  the  arms,  they  took  him 
home  through  the  poplar  grove,  and  the  drunken 


104        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

man,  mistaking  the  white  trunks  of  the  trees  in 
the  night,  stammered  thickly: 

"Oh,  how  many  Dominican  monks  I  see!  .  .  ." 

Said  Clavola,  "They  are  going  to  look  for  San 
Antonio/' 

The  drunken  man  went  on,  after  an  interval: 

"Oh,  Lepruccio,  Lepruccio,  seven  measures  of 
salt  will  be  enough.     What  shall  we  do?" 

The  three  conspirators,  having  conveyed 
Mastro  Peppe  to  the  door  of  his  house,  left  him 
there.  He  ascended  the  steps  with  much  diffi- 
culty, mumbling  about  Lepruccio  and  the  salt. 
Then,  not  noticing  that  he  had  left  the  door  open, 
he  threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  Morpheus. 

Ciavola  and  Ristabilito,  after  having  partaken 
of  the  supper  of  Don  Bergamino,  provided  with 
certain  crooked  tools,  set  cautiously  to  work.  The 
moon  had  set,  the  sky  was  glittering  with  stars, 
and  through  the  solitude  the  north  wind  was 
blowing  sharply.  The  two  men  advanced  silently, 
listening  for  any  sound,  and  halting  now  and  then, 
when  the  skill  and  agility  of  Matteo  Puriello 
would  be  called  Into  use  for  the  occasion. 

When  they  reached  the  place,  Ristabilito  could 
scarcely  withhold  an  exclamation  of  joy  on  find- 
ing the  door  open.  Profound  silence  reigned 
through  the  house,  except  for  the  deep  snoring  of 


SORCERY  105 

the  sleeping  man.  Ciavola  ascended  the  stairs 
first,  followed  by  Ristabillto.  In  the  dim  light 
they  perceived  the  vague  outlines  of  the  pig  lying 
upon  the  table.  With  the  utmost  caution,  they 
raised  the  heavy  body  and  dragged  it  out  by  main 
force.  They  stood  listening  for  a  moment.  The 
cocks  could  be  heard  crowing,  one  after  another, 
in  the  yards. 

Then  the  two  thieves,  laughing  at  their  prowess, 
took  the  pig  upon  their  shoulders  and  made  their 
way  up  the  path;  to  Ciavola  It  seemed  like  steal- 
ing through  a  wood  with  poached  game.  The  pig 
was  heavy,  and  they  reached  the  house  of  the 
priest  in  a  breathless  state. 

Ill 

The  next  morning,  having  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  wine,  Mastro  Peppe  awoke,  stood 
up  In  bed,  and  stretched  himself,  listening  to  the 
bells  saluting  the  eve  of  San  Antonio.  Already 
in  his  mind,  in  the  confusion  of  the  first  awaken- 
ing, he  saw  Lepruccio  cut  Into  pieces  and  cover 
his  beautiful  fat  pork-meat  with  salt,  and  his  soul 
was  filled  with  happiness  at  this  thought.  Im- 
patient for  the  anticipated  delight,  he  dressed 
hastily  and  went  out  to  the  stair-case,  wiping  his 


io6        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

eyes  to  see  more  clearly.  Upon  the  table  where 
he  had  left  the  pig,  the  morning  sun  was  smiling 
in,  but  nothing  was  there  save  a  stain  of  blood  I 

*'The  pig?  Where  is  the  pig?'*  cried  the 
robbed  man  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

In  a  frenzy,  he  descended  the  stairs,  and  notic- 
ing the  open  door,  striking  his  forehead,  he  ran 
out  crying,  and  called  the  labourers  around  him, 
asking  every  one  if  they  had  seen  the  pig,  If  they 
had  taken  it.  His  queries  came  faster  and  faster 
and  his  voice  grew  louder  and  louder,  until  the 
sound  of  the  uproar  came  up  the  river  to  Ciavola 
and  RIstabilito. 

They  came  tranquilly  upon  the  group  to  enjoy 
the  spectacle  and  keep  up  the  joke.  As  they  came 
In  sight,  Mastro  Peppe  turned  to  them,  weeping 
In  his  grief,  and  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  dear  me!  They  have  stolen  my  pig! 
Oh,  dear  me!  What  am  I  to  do  now?  What 
am  I  to  do?" 

Blagio  Quaglia  stood  a  moment  considering 
the  appearance  of  the  unhappy  fellow,  his  eyes 
half-closed  in  an  expression  which  was  half  sneer, 
half  admiration,  his  head  bent  sideways,  as 
though  judging  of  the  effect  of  this  acting.  Then 
approaching,  he  said: 


SORCERY  107 

"Yes  indeed!  .  .  .  One  cannot  deny  It  .  .  . 
You  play  your  part  well!" 

Peppe,  not  understanding,  lifted  his  face, 
streaked  with  tears. 

"Yes,  yes  Indeed!  You  are  becoming  very 
cunning!"  continued  RIstablllto  with  an  air  of 
confidential  friendship. 

Peppe,  not  yet  understanding,  stared  stupidly  at 
RIstablllto,  and  his  tears  stopped  flowing. 

"But  truly,  I  did  not  think  you  were  so 
malicious!"  went  on  RIstablllto.  "Good  fellow! 
My  compliments !" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  La  Brevetta  be- 
tween his  sobs.  "What  do  you  mean?  .  .  .  Oh, 
poor  me!    How  can  I  now  return  home?" 

"Good!  Good!  Very  well  done!"  cried 
RIstablllto.  "Play  your  part!  Play  your  part! 
Weep  louder!  Pull  your  hair!  Make  every  one 
hear  you!  Yes,  that  way!  Make  everybody  be- 
lieve you !" 

Peppe,  still  weeping,  "But  I  am  telling  you  the 
truth!  My  pig  has  been  stolen  from  me!  Oh, 
Lord!    Poor  me!" 

"Go  on !  Go  on !  Don't  stop !  The  more  you 
shout,  the  less  I  believe  you.  Go  on!  Go  on! 
Some  more!** 


io8         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Peppe,  beside  himself  with  anger  and  grief, 
swore  repeatedly. 

*'I  tell  you  It  Is  true!  I  hope  to  die  on  the 
spot  if  the  pig  has  not  been  stolen  from  me!" 

"Oh,  poor  innocent  fellow!"  shrieked  Clavola, 
jestingly.  *'Put  your  finger  In  your  mouth !  How 
can  we  believe  you  when  last  night  we  saw  the 
pig  there?  Has  San  Antonio  given  him  wings 
to  fly?" 

**San  Antonio  be  blest!    It  is  as  I  tell  you!" 

*'But  how  can  it  be?" 

"So  it  is!" 

"It  can't  be  sol" 

"It  is  sol" 

"No!" 

"Yes,  yes !  It  is  so !  It  is  so,  and  I  am  a  dead 
man  I  I  don't  know  how  I  can  ever  go  home 
again!  Pelagia  will  not  believe  me;  and  if  she 
believes  me,  she  will  never  give  me  any  peace 
.  .  .  I  am  a  dead  man!" 

"Well,  we'll  try  to  believe  you,"  said  Ristabllito. 
"But  look  here,  Peppe.  Clavola  suggested  the 
trick  to  you  yesterday.  Is  it  not  so  that  you  might 
fool  Pelagia,  and  others  as  well?  You  might  be 
capable  of  doing  that." 

Then  La  Brevetta  began  to  weep  and  cry  and 


SORCERY  109 

despair  In  such  a  foolish  burst  of  grief  that  Rista- 
bllito  said: 

*'Very  well,  keep  quiet!  We  believe  you.  But 
if  this  is  true,  we  must  find  a  way  to  repair  the 
damage." 

"What  way?"  asked  La  Brevetta  eagerly,  a 
ray  of  hope  coming  into  his  soul. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Biagio  Quaglia.  "Cer- 
tainly someone  living  around  here  must  have  done 
It,  for  no  one  has  come  over  from  India  to  take 
your  pig  away.    Is  not  that  so,  Peppe?" 

"It  is  well,  it  is  well!"  assented  the  man,  his 
voice  still  filled  with  tears. 

"Well,  then,  pay  attention,"  continued  Rlsta- 
bilito,  delighted  at  Peppe's  credulity.  "Well, 
then,  if  no  one  has  come  from  India  to  rob  you, 
then  certainly  someone  who  lives  around  here 
must  have  been  the  thief.    Is  not  that  so,  Peppe?" 

"It  is  well.    It  is  well." 

"Well,  what  is  to  be  done?  We  must  summon 
the  farm-hands  together  and  employ  some  sorcery 
to  discover  the  thief.  When  the  thief  is  dis- 
covered, the  pig  is  found." 

Peppe's  eyes  shone  with  greediness.  He  came 
nearer  at  the  hint  of  the  sorcery,  which  awakened 
In  him  all  his  native  superstitions. 

"You  know  there  are  three  kinds  of  sorcerers. 


no         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

white  ones,  pink  ones,  and  black  ones;  and  you 
know  there  are  in  the  town  three  women  who 
know  the  art  of  sorcery:  Rosa  Schiavona,  Rusaria 
Pajora,  and  La  Ciniscia.    It  is  for  you  to  choose." 

Peppe  stood  for  a  moment  in  deep  thought; 
then  he  chose  Rusaria  Pajora,  for  she  was  re- 
nowned as  an  enchantress  and  always  accom- 
plished great  things. 

"Well  then,"  Ristabilito  finished.  "There  is 
no  time  to  lose.  For  your  sake,  I  am  willing  to 
do  you  a  favour;  I  will  go  to  town  and  take  what 
is  necessary;  I  will  speak  with  Rusaria  and  ask 
her  to  give  me  all  needful  articles  and  will  return 
this  morning.     Give  me  the  money." 

Peppe  took  out  of  his  waistcoat  three  francs 
and  handed  them  over  hesitatingly. 

"Three  francs  I"  cried  the  other,  refusing 
them.  "Three  francs?  More  than  ten  are 
needed."  The  husband  of  Pelagia  almost  had  a 
fit  upon  hearing  this. 

"What?  Ten  francs  for  a  sorcery?"  he 
stammered,  feeling  In  his  pocket  with  trembling 
fingers.  "Here,  I  give  you  eight  of  them,  and 
no  more." 

Ristabilito  took  them,  saying  dryly: 

"Very  well!  What  I  can  do,  I  will  do.  Will 
you  come  with  me,  Ciavola?" 


SORCERY  III 

The  two  companions  set  off  toward  Pescara 
along  the  path  through  the  trees,  walking  quickly 
in  single  file;  Ciavola  showed  his  merriment  by- 
pounding  Ristablllto  on  the  back  with  his  fist  as 
they  went  along.  Arriving  at  the  town,  they  be- 
took themselves  to  the  store  of  Don  Daniele 
Pacentro,  a  druggist,  with  whom  they  were  on 
very  familiar  terms,  and  here  they  purchased  cer- 
tain aromatic  drugs,  having  them  put  up  in  pills 
as  big  as  walnuts,  well  covered  with  sugar  and 
apple  juice.  Just  as  the  druggist  finished  the 
pills,  Blaglo  Quaglla,  who  had  been  absent  dur- 
ing this  time,  came  in,  carrying  a  piece  of  paper 
filled  with  dried  excrements  of  dog,  and  asked 
the  druggist  to  make  from  these  two  beautiful 
pills,  similar  in  size  and  shape  to  the  others,  ex- 
cepting that  they  were  to  be  dipped  in  aloe  and 
then  lightly  coated  with  sugar.  The  druggist 
did  as  he  asked,  and  in  order  that  these  might 
be  distinguished  from  the  others,  he  placed  upon 
each  a  small  mark  as  suggested  by  Rlstabilito. 

The  two  cheats  then  betook  themselves  back 
to  the  house  of  Mastro  Peppe,  which  they  reached 
in  a  short  time,  arriving  there  at  about  noon,  and 
found  Mastro  Peppe  anxiously  awaiting  them. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  the  form  of  Ciavola  approach- 
ing through  the  trees,  he  cried  out : 


112         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

"Well?" 

"Everything  Is  all  right/'  answered  RIstabllito 
triumphantly,  showing  the  box  containing  the  be- 
witched confectionery.  "Now,  as  today  Is  the 
eve  of  San  Antonio  and  the  labourers  are  feast- 
ing, gather  all  the  people  together  and  offer  them 
drink.  I  know  that  you  have  a  certain  keg  of 
Montepulclano  wine;  bring  that  out  today!  And 
when  everybody  Is  here,  I  will  know  what  to  say, 
and  what  to  do." 

IV 

Two  hours  later,  during  the  warm,  clear  after- 
noon, all  the  neighbouring  harvesters  and  farm- 
hands, who  had  been  summoned  by  La  Brevetta, 
were  assembled  together  In  answer  to  the  invita- 
tion. A  number  of  great  straw  stacks  In  the 
yard  gleamed  brightly  golden  in  the  sun;  a  flock 
of  geese,  snowy  white,  with  orange-coloured 
beaks,  waddled  slowly  about,  cackling,  and  hunt- 
ing for  a  place  to  swim  while  the  smell  of  manure 
was  wafted  at  Intervals  from  the  barnyard.  All 
these  rustic  men,  waiting  to  drink,  were  jesting 
contentedly,  sitting  upon  their  curved  legs,  de- 
formed by  their  labours;  some  of  them  had  round, 
wrinkled  faces  like  withered  apples,  some  were 
mild  and  patient  In  expression,  some  showed  the 


SORCERY  113 

animation  of  malice,  all  possessed  the  incipient 
beards  of  adolescence,  and  lounged  about  in  the 
easy  attitudes  of  youth,  wearing  their  new  clothes 
with  the  manifest  care  of  love. 

Ciavola  and  Ristabilito  did  not  keep  them  wait- 
ing long.  Holding  the  box  of  candy  in  his  hand, 
Ristabilito  ordered  the  men  to  form  a  circle,  and 
standing  in  the  centre,  he  proceeded  with  grave 
voice  and  gestures  to  give  a  brief  harangue. 

"Good  men !  None  of  you  know  why  Mastro 
Peppe  De  Sierri  has  called  you  here  ..." 

The  men's  mouths  opened  in  stupid  wonder  at 
this  unexpected  preamble,  and  as  they  listened, 
their  joy  in  anticipation  of  the  promised  wine 
changed  to  an  uneasy  expectation  of  something 
else,  they  knew  not  what.    The  orator  continued : 

"But  as  something  unpleasant  might  happen 
for  which  you  would  reprove  me,  I  will  tell  you 
what  is  the  matter  before  making  any  experi- 
ment." 

His  listeners  stared  questioningly  at  each  other 
with  a  look  of  stupidity,  then  turned  their  gaze 
upon  the  curious  and  mysterious  box  which  the 
speaker  held  In  his  hands.  One  of  them,  when 
Ristabilito  paused  to  notice  the  effect  of  his  words, 
exclaimed  Impatiently: 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 


114         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

"I  will  tell  you  immediately,  my  good  men. 
Last  night  there  was  stolen  from  Mastro  Peppe 
a  beautiful  pig,  which  was  all  ready  for  salting. 
Who  the  thief  is  we  do  not  know,  but  certainly 
he  must  be  found  among  you  people,  for  nobody 
came  from  India  to  steal  the  pig  from  Mastro 
Peppe!" 

Whether  it  was  the  playful  effect  of  the  strong 
argument  about  India,  or  whether  it  was  the  heat 
of  the  bright  sun  cannot  be  determined,  but  at 
any  rate,  La  Brevetta  began  to  sneeze.  The 
peasants  moved  back,  the  flock  of  geese  ran  in  all 
directions,  terrified,  and  the  seven  consecutive 
sneezes  resounded  loudly  in  the  air,  disturbing  the 
rural  quiet.  An  uproar  of  merriment  seized  the 
crowd  at  the  great  noise.  After  they  had  again 
recovered  their  composure,  Ristabilito  went  on 
gravely,  as  before: 

"In  order  to  discover  the  thief,  Mastro  Peppe 
has  planned  to  give  you  certain  good  candies  to 
eat,  and  some  of  his  old  Montepulciano  wine  to 
drink,  which  will  be  tapped  for  this  purpose  to- 
day. But  I  must  tell  you  something.  The  thief, 
as  soon  as  he  bites  the  candy,  will  feel  his  mouth 
so  drawn  up  by  the  bitterness  of  the  candy  that 
he  will  have  to  spit  it  out.  Now,  do  you  want  to 
try  this  experiment?     Or,  is  the  thief,  in  order 


SORCERY  115 

not  to  be  found  out  In  such  a  manner,  ready  to 
confess  now  ?    Tell  me,  what  do  you  want  to  do  ?" 

"We  wish  to  eat  and  drink!"  answered  the 
crowd  In  a  chorus,  while  an  excited  motion  ran 
through  the  throng,  each  man  showing  an  ex- 
pression of  curiosity  and  delight  at  the  portentous 
demonstration  about  to  be  made. 

Clavola  said: 

"You  must  stand  In  a  row  for  this  experiment. 
Now,  one  of  you  Is  to  be  singled  out." 

When  they  were  all  thus  formed  in  a  line,  he 
took  up  the  flask  of  wine  and  one  of  the  glasses, 
ready  to  pour  It.  Ristabillto  placed  himself  at 
one  end  of  the  line,  and  began  slowly  to  distribute 
the  candy,  which  cracked  under  the  strong  teeth 
of  the  peasants  and  Instantly  disappeared.  When 
he  reached  Mastro  Peppe,  he  took  out  one  of 
the  canine  candles,  which  had  been  marked,  and 
handed  It  to  him,  without  In  any  way  arousing 
suspicion  by  his  manner. 

Mastro  Peppe,  who  had  been  watching  with 
wide  open  eyes  to  detect  the  thief,  thrust  the  candy 
quickly  In  his  mouth,  with  almost  gluttonous 
eagerness,  and  began  to  chew  It  up.  Suddenly 
his  jaw  bones  rose  through  his  cheeks  towards  his 
eyes,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  twisted  upwards, 
and  his  temples  wrinkled,  the  skin  of  his  nose 


ii6        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

drew  up,  his  chin  became  contorted,  and  all  his 
features  took  on  a  comic  and  involuntary  expres- 
sion of  horror,  a  visible  shiver  passed  down  his 
back,  the  bitterness  of  the  aloes  on  his  tongue  was 
beyond  endurance,  his  stomach  revolted  so  that 
he  was  unable  to  swallow  the  dose,  and  the  un- 
happy man  was  forced  to  spit  it  from  his  mouth. 

"Oho,  Mastro  Peppe!  What  in  the  dickens 
are  you  doing?"  cried  out  Tulespre  dei  Passeri, 
a  greenish,  hairy  old  goat-shepherd, — green  as  a 
swamp-turtle.  Hearing  his  voice,  Ristabilito 
turned  around  from  his  work  of  distributing  the 
candies.  Seeing  La  Brevetta's  contortions,  he  said 
in  a  benevolent  voice : 

*'Well!  Perhaps  the  candy  I  gave  you  is  too 
sweet.  Here  is  another  one,  try  this,  Peppe,''  and 
with  his  two  fingers,  he  tossed  into  Peppe's  open 
mouth  the  other  canine  pill. 

The  poor  man  took  it,  and  feeling  the  sharp, 
malignant  eyes  of  the  goat-herder  fixed  upon  him, 
he  made  a  supreme  effort  to  endure  the  bitter- 
ness. He  neither  bit  nor  swallowed  it,  but  let  it 
stay  in  his  mouth,  with  his  tongue  pressed  motion- 
less against  his  teeth.  But  in  the  heat  and  damp- 
ness of  his  mouth,  the  aloes  began  to  dissolve,  and 
he  could  not  long  endure  the  taste ;  his  mouth  be- 
gan to  twist  as  before,  his  nose  was  filled  with 


SORCERY  117 

tears,  the  big  drops  ran  down  his  cheeks,  spring- 
ing from  his  eyes  like  uncut  pearls,  and  at  last, 
he  had  to  spit  out  the  mouthful. 

"Well,  well,  Mastro  Peppe!  What  the  dick- 
ens are  you  doing  now?"  again  exclaimed  the 
goat-herder,  showing  his  white  and  toothless 
gums  as  he  spoke.  *'Well,  well!  What  does 
this  mean?" 

The  peasants  broke  the  lines,  and  crowded 
around  La  Brevetta,  some  jeering  and  laughing, 
others  with  wrathful  words.  Their  pride  had 
been  hurt,  and  the  ready  brutality  of  the  rustic 
people  was  aroused  and  the  implacable  austerity 
of  their  superstitious  natures  broke  out  in  a  sud- 
den tempest  of  contumely  and  reproach. 

"Why  did  you  get  us  to  come  here  to  try  to 
lay  the  blame  of  this  thing  on  one  of  us?  So 
this  is  the  kind  of  sorcery  you  have  gotten  up? 
It  was  intended  to  fool  us!  And  why?  You  cal- 
culated wrongly,  you  fool!  you  liar!  you  ill-bred 
fool !  you  rascal !  You  wanted  to  deceive  us,  you 
fool!  you  thief!  you  liar!  You  deserve  to  have 
every  bone  in  your  body  broken,  you  scoundrel! 
you  deceiver!" 

Having  broken  the  wine  flasks  and  all  the 
glasses,  they  dispersed,  shouting  back  their  last 
insults  through  the  poplar  grove. 


ii8        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Ciavola,  Ristabilito,  the  geese,  and  La  Brevetta 
were  left  alone  in  the  yard.  The  latter,  filled 
with  shame,  rage,  and  confusion,  his  tongue  still 
biting  from  the  acridness  of  the  aloes,  was  unable 
to  speak  a  word.  Ristabilito  stood  looking  at  him 
pitilessly,  tapping  the  ground  with  his  toe  as  he 
stood  supported  on  his  heels,  and  shaking  his 
head  sarcastically,  then  he  broke  out  with  an 
insinuating  sneer: 

"Ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  Good,  good,  La  Brevetta ! 
Now,  tell  us  how  much  you  got  for  the  pig.  Did 
you  get  ten  ducats?" 


VII 
THE  IDOLATERS 


THE  great  sandy  square  scintillated  as  if 
spread  with  powdered  pumice  stone.  All 
of  the  houses  around  it,  whitened  with  plaster, 
seemed  red  hot  like  the  walls  of  an  immense 
furnace  whose  fire  was  about  to  die  out.  In  the 
distance,  the  pilasters  of  the  church  reflected  the 
radiation  of  the  clouds  and  became  red  as  granite, 
the  windows  flashed  as  if  they  might  contain 
an  internal  conflagration;  the  sacred  images 
possessed  personalities  alive  with  colour;  the  en- 
tire structure,  beneath  the  splendour  of  this 
meteoric  twilight,  assumed  a  more  lofty  power  of 
dominion  over  the  houses  of  Radusani. 

There  moved  from  the  streets  to  the  square 
groups  of  men  and  women,  vociferating  and  ges- 
ticulating. In  the  souls  of  all,  superstitious  terror 
was  rapidly  becoming  intense;  in  all  of  those  un- 
cultivated imaginations  a  thousand  terrible  im- 

119 


I20        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

ages  of  divine  chastisement  arose;  comments,  pas- 
sionate contentions,  lamentable  conjurations,  dis- 
connected tales,  prayers,  cries  mingled  with  the 
ominous    rumbling    of    an    imminent    hurricane. 

Already  for  many  days  that  bloody  redness 
had  lingered  in  the  sky  after  the  sunset,  had  in- 
vaded the  tranquillity  of  the  night,  illuminated 
tragically  the  slumber  of  the  fields,  aroused  the 
howls  of  the  dogs. 

"Giacobbe!  Giacobbe!"  cried  several  while 
waving  their  arms  who  previous  to  this  time  had 
spoken  In  low  voices,  before  the  church,  crowded 
around  a  pilaster  of  the  vestibule.      "Giacobbe !" 

There  issued  from  the  main  door  and  ap- 
proached the  summoners  a  long  and  lean  man, 
who  seemed  111  with  a  hectic  fever,  was  bald  upon 
the  top  of  his  head,  and  crowned  at  the  temples 
and  neck  with  long  reddish  hair. 

His  small,  hollow  eyes,  animated  as  if  from 
the  ardour  of  a  deep  passion,  converged  slightly 
toward  his  nose,  and  were  of  an  uncertain  colour. 
The  lack  of  the  two  front  teeth  of  the  upper 
jaw  gave  to  his  mouth  as  he  spoke,  and  to  the 
movements  of  his  sharp  chin  scattered  with  hairs, 
a  singular  appearance  of  satyr-like  senility.  The 
rest  of  his  body  was  a  miserable  architectural 
structure   of  bones  badly   concealed  by  clothes, 


THE  IDOLATERS  121 

while  on  his  hands,  on  the  under  sides  of  his  arms 
and  on  his  breast,  his  skin  was  full  of  azure 
marks,  incisions  made  with  the  point  of  a  pin 
and  powder  of  Indigo,  In  memory  of  visits  to 
sanctuaries,  of  grace  received,  of  vows  taken. 

As  the  fanatic  drew  near  to  the  group  around 
the  pilaster,  a  medley  of  questions  arose  from 
these  anxious  men. 

"What  then?  What  had  Don  Consolo  said? 
Had  he  made  only  the  arm  of  silver  appear?" 

"And  was  not  the  entire  bust  a  better  omen? 
When  would  Pallura  return  with  the  candles?" 

"Were  there  a  hundred  pounds  of  wax?  Only 
a  hundred  pounds?  And  when  would  the  bells 
begin  to  sound?     What  then?     What  then?" 

The  clamours  Increased  around  Glacobbe;  those 
furthest  away  drew  near  to  the  church;  from  all 
the  streets  the  people  overflowed  on  to  the  piazza 
and  filled  It. 

Glacobbe  replied  to  the  Interrogators.  He 
spoke  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  he  were  about  to  reveal 
terrible  secrets,  as  If  he  were  the  bearer  of 
prophecies  from  afar.  He  had  witnessed  on  high, 
in  the  centre  of  blood,  a  threatening  hand  and 
then  a  black  veil,  and  then  a  sword  and  a  trum- 
pet. .  .  . 

"Tell  us!     Tell  us!"  the  others  induced  him, 


122         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

while  watching  his  face,  seized  with  a  strange 
greediness  to  hear  marvellous  things,  while,  In 
the  meantime  the  fable  sped  from  mouth  to  mouth 
throughout  the  assembled  multitude. 


II 

The  great  vermilion  clouds  mounted  slowly 
from  the  horizon  to  the  zenith,  until  they  finally 
filled  the  entire  cupola  of  the  heavens.  A  vapour 
as  of  melted  metals  seemed  to  undulate  over  the 
roofs  of  the  houses,  and  In  the  descending  lustre 
of  the  twilight  sulphurous  and  violent  rays  blended 
together  with  trembling  iridescence. 

A  long  streamer  more  luminous  than  the  rest 
escaped  toward  a  street  giving  on  the  river 
front,  and  there  appeared  in  the  distance  the 
flaming  of  the  water  between  the  long,  slender 
shafts  of  the  poplars;  then  came  a  border  of 
ragged  country,  where  the  old  Saracenic  towers 
rose  confusedly  like  Islands  of  stone  in  the  midst 
of  obscurity;  oppressive  emanations  from  the 
reaped  hay  filled  the  atmosphere,  which  was  at 
times  like  an  odour  of  putrefied  worms  amongst 
the  foliage.  Troops  of  swallows  flew  across  the 
sky  with  shrill-resounding  notes,  while  going 
from  the  banks  of  the  river  to  the  caves.     The 


THE  IDOLATERS  123 

murmuring  of  the  multitude  was  interrupted  by 
the  silence  of  expectation.  The  name  of  Pallura 
was  on  all  lips,  while  Irate  Impatience  burst  out 
here  and  there.  Along  the  path  of  the  river  they 
did  not  as  yet  see  the  cart  appear;  they  lacked 
candles  and  Don  Consolo  delayed  because  of  this 
to  expose  the  relics  and  make  the  exorcisms ;  fur- 
ther, an  Imminent  peril  was  threatening.  Panic 
invaded  all  of  this  people,  massed  like  a  herd  of 
beasts,  no  longer  daring  to  lift  their  eyes  to 
heaven.  From  the  breasts  of  the  women  sobs  be- 
gan to  escape,  while  a  supreme  consternation  op- 
pressed and  stupefied  all  souls  at  these  sounds  of 
grief. 

At  length  the  bells  rang  out.  As  these  bronze 
forms  swung  at  a  low  height,  the  ominous  sound 
of  their  tolling  blanched  the  faces  of  all,  and  a 
species  of  continuous  howling  filled  the  air,  be- 
tween strokes. 

"Saint  Pantaleone!     Saint  Pantaleonel" 

There  was  an  immense  simultaneous  cry  for 
help  from  these  desperate  souls.  All  upon  their 
knees,  with  extended  hands,  with  white  faces,  Im- 
plored, "Saint  Pantaleone!" 

There  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  church,  in 
the  midst  of  the  smoke  from  two  censers,  Don 
Consolo  in  a  shining  violet  cape  embroidered  with 


124        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

gold.  He  held  on  high  the  sacred  arm  of  silver, 
and  exorcised  the  air  while  pronouncing  these 
words  in  Latin,  ^'Ut  fidelibus  tuis  aeris  sereni- 
tatem  concedere  digneris.    Te  rogamus,  audi  nosJ' 

The  appearance  of  the  relic  excited  a  delirium 
of  tenderness  in  the  multitude.  Tears  flowed 
from  all  eyes,  and  behind  the  clear  veil  of  tears 
their  eyes  saw  a  miraculous,  celestial  splendour 
emanate  from  the  three  fingers  held  up  to  bless 
the  multitude.  The  arm  seemed  larger  in  the  kin- 
dled atmosphere,  the  twilight  rays  produced  a 
dazzling  effect  on  the  precious  stones,  the  bal- 
sam of  the  incense  was  wafted  rapidly  to  the 
devotees. 

^'Te  rogamus  audi  nosf'^ 

But  when  the  arm  re-entered  and  the  bells 
ceased  to  ring,  in  the  momentary  silence,  they 
heard  nearby  a  tinkling  of  bells  that  came  from 
the  road  by  the  river.  Then  followed  a  sudden 
movement  of  the  crowd  in  that  direction  and 
many  said,  *'It  is  Pallura  with  the  candles!  It 
is  Pallura  who  has  come !     See  Pallura !" 

The  cart  arrived,  rattling  over  the  gravel, 
dragged  by  a  heavy  grey  mare,  on  whose  back  a 
great  brass  horn  shone  like  a  beautiful  half  moon. 
As  Giacobbe  and  the  others  ran  to  meet  the  wagon 
the  gentle  beast  stopped,  blowing  heavily  from* 


THE  IDOLATERS  125 

his  nostrils.  Giacobbe,  who  reached  it  first,  saw, 
stretched  in  the  bottom  of  the  cart,  the  body  of 
Pallura  covered  with  blood,  whereupon  he  began 
to  howl  and  waved  his  arms  to  the  crowd,  shout- 
ing, "He  is  dead!    He  is  dead  1" 

III 

The  sad  news  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  in 
a  flash.  The  people  pressed  around  the  cart, 
stretched  their  necks  to  see  the  body,  no  longer 
thought  of  threats  from  above,  stricken  by  this 
new,  unexpected  occurrence,  invaded  by  that  nat- 
ural fierce  curiosity  that  men  possess  in  the  pres- 
ence of  blood. 

*'Ishedead?    How  did  he  die?" 

Pallura  rested  supine  on  the  boards,  with  a 
large  wound  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  with 
an  ear  lacerated,  with  rents  in  his  arms,  in  his 
sides,  in  one  thigh.  A  tepid  stream  dripped  from 
the  hollow  of  his  eyes  down  to  his  chin  and  neck, 
while  it  spotted  his  shirt,  formed  black  and  shin- 
ing clots  upon  his  breast,  on  his  leather  belt,  and 
even  on  his  trousers. 

Giacobbe  remained  leaning  over  the  body;  all 
of  those  around  him  waited,  a  light  as  of  the 


126         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

morning  illuminated  their  perplexed  faces;  and, 
In  that  moment  of  silence,  from  the  banks  of  the 
river  came  the  croak  of  the  frogs,  and  the  bats 
passed  and  repassed  grazing  the  heads  of  the 
people. 

Suddenly  Giacobbe  standing  up,  with  a  cheek 
stained  with  blood,  cried,  "He  is  not  dead.  He 
still  breathes." 

A  dull  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd,  and 
those  nearest  stretched  themselves  to  see;  the  rest- 
lessness of  those  most  distant  made  them  break 
into  shouts.  Two  women  brought  a  flask  of 
water,  another  some  strips  of  linen,  while  a  youth 
offered  a  pumpkin  full  of  wine.  The  face  of  the 
wounded  man  was  bathed,  the  flow  of  blood  from 
the  forehead  stanched  and  his  head  raised. 

Then  there  arose  loud  voices,  demanding  the 
cause  of  all  this.  The  hundred  pounds  of  wax 
were  missing;  barely  a  few  fragments  of  candles 
remained  among  the  interstices  of  the  boards  in 
the  bottom  of  the  cart. 

In  the  midst  of  the  commotion  the  emotions  of 
the  people  were  kindled  more  and  more,  and  be- 
came more  Irritable  and  belligerent.  As  an  an- 
cient hereditary  hatred  for  the  country  of  Mas- 
calico,  opposite  upon  the  other  bank  of  the  river. 


THE  IDOLATERS  127 

was  always  fermenting,  Glacobbe  cried  venom- 
ously in  a  hoarse  voice,  '*Maybe  the  candles  are 
being  used  for  Saint  Gonselvo?" 

This  was  like  a  spark  of  fire.  The  spirit  of 
the  church  awoke  suddenly  in  that  race,  grown 
brutish  through  so  many  years  of  blind  and  fierce 
worship  of  its  one  idol.  The  words  of  the  fanatic 
sped  from  mouth  to  mouth.  And  beneath  the 
tragic  glow  of  the  twilight  this  tumultuous  peo- 
ple had  the  appearance  of  a  tribe  of  negro 
mutineers. 

The  name  of  the  Saint  burst  from  all  throats 
like  a  war  cry.  The  most  ardent  hurled  impreca- 
tions against  the  farther  side  of  the  river,  while 
shaking  their  arms  and  clenching  their  fists. 
Then,  all  of  those  countenances  afire  with  wrath 
and  wrathful  thoughts,  round  and  resolute,  whose 
circles  of  gold  in  the  ears  and  thick  tufts  of  hair 
on  the  forehead  gave  them  a  strange  barbarian 
aspect,  all  of  those  countenances  turned  toward 
the  reclining  man,  and  softened  with  pity.  There 
was  around  the  cart  a  pious  solicitude  shown  by 
the  women,  who  wished  to  reanimate  the  suffer- 
ing man ;  many  loving  hands  changed  the  strips  of 
linen  on  the  wounds,  sprinkled  the  face  with 
water,  placed  the  pumpkin  of  wine  to  the  white 


128         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

lips  and  made  a  kind  of  a  pillow  beneath  the  head. 

"Pallura,  poor  Pallura,  why  do  you  not 
answer?" 

He  remained  motionless,  with  closed  hands, 
with  mouth  half  open,  with  a  brown  down  on  his 
throat  and  chin,  with  a  sort  of  beauty  of  youth 
still  apparent  in  his  features  even  though  they 
were  strained  by  the  convulsions  of  pain.  From 
beneath  the  binding  of  his  forehead  a  stream  of 
blood  dropped  down  upon  his  temples,  while  at 
the  angles  of  his  mouth  appeared  little  bubbles 
of  red  foam,  and  from  his  throat  issued  a  species 
of  thick,  interrupted  hissing.  Around  him  the  as- 
sistance, the  questions,  the  feverish  glances  in- 
creased. The  mare  every  so  often  shook  her  head 
and  neighed  in  the  direction  of  her  stable.  An 
oppression  as  of  an  imminent  hurricane  weighed 
upon  the  country. 

Then  one  heard  feminine  cries  in  the  direction 
of  the  square,  cries  of  the  mother,  that  seemed 
even  louder  in  the  midst  of  the  sudden  silence  of 
the  others.  An  enormous  woman,  almost  suffo- 
cated by  her  flesh,  passed  through  the  crowd,  and 
arrived  crying  at  the  cart.  As  she  was  so  heavy 
as  to  be  unable  to  climb  into  the  cart,  she  grasped 
the  feet  of  her  son,  with  words  of  love  inter- 


THE  IDOLATERS  129 

spersed  among  her  tears,  given  in  a  broken  voice, 
so  sharp,  and  with  an  expression  of  grief  so  ter- 
ribly beast  like,  that  a  shiver  ran  through  all  of 
the  bystanders  and  all  turned  their  faces  aside. 

"Zaccheo!  Zaccheo!  my  heart  I  my  joy!" — the 
widow  C4*ied,  over  and  over  again,  while  kissing 
the  feet  of  the  wounded  one,  and  drawing  him  to 
her  toward  the  ground.  The  wounded  man 
stirre-d,  twisted  his  mouth  in  a  spasm,  opened  his 
eyes  wide,  but  he  really  could  not  see,  because 
a  kind  of  humid  film  covered  his  sight.  Great 
tears  began  to  flow  from  the  corners  of  his  eye- 
lids and  to  run  down  upon  his  cheeks  and  neck, 
his  mouth  remained  twisted,  and  in  the  thick  hiss- 
ing of  his  throat  one  perceived  a  vain  effort  to 
speak.  They  crowded  around  him.  ''Speak,  Pal- 
lura!  Who  has  wounded  you?  Who  has 
wounded  you?    Speak!    Speak!'' 

And  beneath  the  question  their  wrath  raged; 
their  violent  desires  intensified,  a  dull  crav- 
ing for  vengeance  shook  them  and  that  heredi- 
tary hatred  boiled  up  again  in  the  souls  of  all. 

''Speak!  Who  has  wounded  you?  Tell  us 
about  it!    Tell  us  about  it!" 

The  dying  man  opened  his  eyes  a  second  time, 
and  as  they  clasped  both  of  his  hands,  perhaps 


130         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

through  the  warmth  of  that  living  contact  the 
spirit  in  him  revived  and  his  face  lighted  up.  He 
had  upon  his  lips  a  vague  murmur,  betwixt  the 
foam  that  rose,  suddenly  more  abundant  and 
bloody.  They  did  not  as  yet  understand  his 
words.  One  could  hear  in  the  silence  the  breath- 
ing of  the  breathless  multitude,  and  all  eyes  held 
within  their  depths  a  single  flame  because  all 
minds  awaited  a  single  word. 

"Ma — Ma — Ma — scalico." 

"Mascalico!  Mascalicol"  howled  Glacobbe, 
who  was  bending,  with  strained  ear,  to  grasp  the 
weak  syllables  from  that  dying  mouth.  An  im- 
mense cry  greeted  this  explanation.  There  was 
at  first  a  confused  rising  and  falling  as  of  a  tem- 
pest in  the  multitude.  Then  when  one  voice 
raised  above  the  tumult  gave  the  signal,  the  mul- 
titude disbanded  in  mad  haste. 

One  single  thought  pursued  those  men,  one 
thought  that  seemed  to  have  flashed  Instantane- 
ously Into  the  minds  of  all:  to  arm  themselves 
with  something  in  order  to  wound.  A  species  of 
sanguinary  fatality  settled  upon  all  consciences  be- 
neath the  surly  splendour  of  the  twilight.  In  the 
midst  of  the  electrifying  odours  emanating  from 
the  panting  country. 


THE  IDOLATERS  131 


IV 

Then  the  phalanxes,  armed  with  scythes,  with 
sickles,  with  hatchets,  with  hoes  and  with  muskets, 
reunited  on  the  square  before  the  church. 

And  the  idolaters  shouted,  "Saint  Pantaleone!" 

Don  Consolo,  terrified  by  the  turmoil,  had  fled 
to  the  depths  of  a  stall  behind  the  altar.  A  hand- 
ful of  fanatics,  conducted  by  Giacobbe,  penetrated 
the  large  chapel,  forced  its  gratings  of  bronze,  and 
arrived  at  length  in  the  underground  passage 
where  the  bust  of  the  Saint  was  kept.  Three 
lamps  fed  with  olive  oil  burned  gently  in  the 
sacristy  behind  a  crystal;  the  Christian  Idol 
sparkled  with  Its  white  head  surrounded  by  a 
large  solar  disc,  and  the  walls  were  covered  over 
with  the  rich  gifts. 

When  the  idol,  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of 
four  Hercules,  appeared  presently  between  the 
pilasters  of  the  vestibule,  and  shed  rays  from  its 
aureole,  a  long,  breathless  passion  passed  over 
the  expectant  crowd,  a  noise  like  a  joyous  wind 
beat  upon  all  foreheads.  The  column  moved. 
And  the  enormous  head  of  the  Saint  oscillated  on 
high,  gazing  before  it  with  two  empty  eyes. 

In  the  heavens  now  passed  at  intervals  meteors 


132         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

which  seemed  alive,  while  groups  of  thin  clouds 
seemed  to  detach  themselves  from  the  heavens, 
and,  while  dissolving,  floated  slowly  away.  The 
entire  country  of  Radusa  appeared  in  the  back- 
ground like  a  mountain  of  ashes  that  might  be 
concealing  a  fire,  and  in  front  of  it  the  contour 
of  the  country  lost  Itself  with  an  indistinct  flash. 
A  great  chorus  of  frogs  disturbed  the  harmony 
of  the  solitude. 

On  the  road  by  the  river  Pallura's  cart  ob- 
structed progress.  It  was  empty  now,  but  bore 
traces  of  blood  In  many  places.  Irate  impreca- 
tions exploded  suddenly  In  the  silence. 

Giacobbe  cried,  "Let  us  put  the  Saint  In  It  I" 

The  bust  was  placed  on  the  boards  and  dragged 
by  human  strength  to  the  ford.  The  procession, 
ready  for  battle,  thus  crossed  the  boundary. 
Along  the  files  metal  lamps  were  carried,  the  In- 
vaded waters  broke  in  luminous  sprays,  and  every- 
where a  red  light  flamed  from  the  young  poplars 
in  the  distance,  toward  the  quadrangular  towers. 
Mascalico  appeared  upon  a  little  elevation,  asleep 
in  the  centre  of  an  olive  orchard. 

The  dogs  barked  here  and  there,  with  a  furi- 
ous persistency.  The  column  having  issued  from 
the  ford,  on  abandoning  the  common  road,  ad- 
vanced with  rapid  steps  by  a  direct  path  that  cut 


THE  IDOLATERS  133 

through  the  fields.  The  bust  of  silver  borne  anew 
on  rugged  shoulders,  towered  above  the  heads 
of  the  men  amongst  the  high  grain,  odorous  and 
starred  with  living  fireflies. 

Suddenly,  a  shepherd,  who  rested  under  a  straw 
shed  to  guard  the  grain,  seized  by  a  mad  terror 
at  the  sight  of  so  many  armed  men,  began  to 
flee  up  the  coast,  screaming  as  loud  as  he  could, 
"Help!    Help!" 

His  cries  echoed  through  the  olive  orchards. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Radusani  increased  their 
speed.  Among  the  trunks  of  trees,  amid  the 
dried  reeds,  the  Saint  of  silver  tottered,  gave  back 
sonorous  tinklings  at  the  blows  of  the  trees,  be- 
came illuminated  with  vivid  flashes  at  every  hint 
of  a  fall.  Ten,  twelve,  twenty  shots  rained  down 
in  a  vibrating  flash,  one  after  another  upon  the 
group  of  houses.  One  heard  creaks,  then  cries 
followed  by  a  great  clamorous  commotion;  sev- 
eral doors  opened  while  others  closed,  windows 
fell  in  fragments  and  vases  of  basil  fell  shivered 
on  the  road.  A  white  smoke  rose  placidly  in  the 
air,  behind  the  path  of  the  assailants,  up  to  the 
celestial  incandescence.  All  blinded,  in  a  belliger- 
ent rage,  shouted,  "To  death!    To  death!" 

A  group  of  idolaters  maintained  their  positions 
around   Saint    Pantaleone.     Atrocious    vitupera- 


134         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

tions  against  Saint  Gonselvo  burst  out  amongst 
the  brandished  scythes  and  sickles. 

''Thief I  Thief!  Loafer!  The  candles!  .  .  . 
The  candles!" 

Other  groups  besieged  the  doors  of  the  houses 
with  blows  of  hatchets.  And,  as  the  doors  un- 
hinged shattered  and  fell,  the  howling  Pantaleo- 
nites  burst  inside,  ready  to  kill.  Half  nude 
women  fled  to  the  corners,  imploring  pity  and, 
trying  to  defend  themselves  from  the  blows  by 
grasping  the  weapons  and  cutting  their  fingers, 
they  rolled  extended  on  the  pavement  in  the  midst 
of  heaps  of  coverings  and  sheets  from  which 
oozed  their  flaccid  turnip-fed  flesh. 

Giacobbe,  tall,  slender,  flushed,  a  bundle  of 
dried  bones  rendered  formidable  by  passion,  di- 
rector of  the  slaughter,  stopped  everywhere  in 
order  to  make  a  broad,  commanding  gesture 
above  all  heads  with  his  huge  scythe.  He  walked 
in  the  front  ranks,  fearless,  without  a  hat,  in 
the  name  of  Saint  Pantaleone.  More  than  thirty 
men  followed  him.  And  all  had  the  confused 
and  stupid  sensation  of  walking  in  the  midst  of 
fire,  upon  an  oscillating  earth,  beneath  a  burning 
vault  that  was  about  to  shake  down  upon  them. 

But  from  all  sides  defenders  began  to  assem- 
ble; the  MascaHcesi,  strong  and  dark  as  mulattoes, 


THE  IDOLATERS  135 

sanguinary,  who  struck  with  long  unyielding 
knives,  and  tore  the  stomach  and  throat,  accom- 
panying each  blow  with  guttural  cries.  The  fray 
drew  little  by  little  toward  the  church,  from  the 
roofs  of  two  or  three  houses  burst  flames,  a  horde 
of  women  and  children  escaped  precipitately 
among  the  olives,  seized  with  panic  and  no  longer 
with  light  in  their  eyes. 

Then  among  the  men,  without  the  handicap 
of  the  women's  tears  and  laments,  the  hand-to« 
hand  struggle  grew  more  ferocious.  Beneath  the 
rust-coloured  sky  the  earth  was  covered  with 
corpses.  Vituperations,  choked  within  the  teeth 
of  the  slain,  resounded,  and  ever  above  the  clam- 
our continued  the  shout  of  the  Radusani,  "The 
candles!     The  candles!" 

But  the  entrance  of  the  church  was  barred  by 
an  enormous  door  of  oak  studded  with  nails. 
The  Mascalicesi  defended  it  from  the  blows  and 
hatchets.  The  Saint  of  silver,  impassive  and 
white,  oscillated  in  the  thick  of  the  fray,  still  sus- 
tained upon  the  shoulders  of  the  four  Hercules, 
who,  although  bleeding  from  head  to  foot,  refused 
to  give  up.  The  supreme  vow  of  the  attackers 
was  to  place  the  idol  on  the  altar  of  the  enemy. 

Now  while  the  Mascalicesi  raged  like  prodi- 
gious lions  on  the  stone  steps,  Giacobbe  disap- 


136         TALES  OF  MY  NATIFE  TOPVN 

peared  suddenly  and  skirted  the  rear  of  the  edifice 
for  an  undefended  opening  by  which  he  could 
penetrate  the  sacristy.  Finally  he  discovered  an 
aperture  at  a  slight  distance  from  the  ground, 
clambered  up,  remained  fixed  there,  held  fast  at 
the  hips  by  its  narrowness,  twisted  and  turned, 
until  at  length  he  succeeded  in  forcing  his  long 
body  through  the  opening. 

The  welcome  aroma  of  incense  was  vanishing 
in  the  nocturnal  frost  of  the  house  of  God.  Grop- 
ing in  the  dark,  guided  by  the  crashing  of  the 
external  blows,  the  man  walked  toward  the  door, 
stumbling  over  the  chain,  and  falling  on  his  face 
and  hands. 

Radusanian  hatchets  already  resounded  upon 
the  hardness  of  the  oak  doors,  when  he  began  to 
force  the  lock  with  an  iron,  breathless,  suffocated 
by  the  violent  palpitation  of  anxiety  that  sapped 
his  strength,  with  his  eyes  blurred  by  indistinct 
flashes,  with  his  wounds  aching  and  emitting  a 
tepid  stream  which  flowed  down  over  his  skin. 

*'Saint  Pantaleone!  Saint  Pantaleone!" 
shouted  outside  the  hoarse  voices  of  those  who 
felt  the  door  yielding  slowly,  while  they  redoubled 
their  shouts  and  the  blows  of  their  hatchets.  From 
the  other  side  of  the  wood  resounded  the  heavy 
thud  of  bodies  of  those  that  had  been  murdered 


THE  IDOLATERS  137 

and  the  sharp  blow  of  a  knife  that  had  pinioned 
some  one  against  the  door,  nailed  through  the 
back.  And  it  seemed  to  Giacobbe  that  the  whole 
nave  throbbed  with  the  beating  of  his  wild  heart. 

After  a  final  effort,  the  door  swung  open.  The 
Radusani  rushed  in  headlong  with  an  immense 
shout  of  victory,  passing  over  the  bodies  of  the 
dead,  dragging  the  Saint  of  silver  to  the  altar. 

An  animated  oscillation  of  reflections  suddenly 
illuminated  the  obscurity  of  the  nave  and  made 
the  gold  of  the  candelabra  glitter.  And  in  that 
glaring  splendour,  which  now  and  again  was  in- 
tensified by  the  burning  of  the  adjacent  houses,  a 
second  struggle  took  place.  The  entangled  bodies 
rolled  upon  the  bricks,  remained  In  a  death  grip, 
balanced  together  here  and  there  In  their  wrath- 
ful struggles,  howled  and  rolled  beneath  the 
benches,  upon  the  steps  of  the  chapels  and  against 
the  corners  of  the  confessionals.  In  the  sym- 
metrical concave  of  this  house  of  God  arose  that 
Icy  sound  of  the  steel  that  penetrates  the  flesh  or 
that  grinds  through  the  bones,  that  single  broken 
groan  of  a  man  wounded  In  a  vital  part,  that  rat- 
tle that  the  framework  of  the  skull  gives  forth 
when  crushed  with  a  blow,  that  roar  of  him  who 
dreads  to  die,  that  atrocious  hilarity  of  him  who 
has  reached  the  point  of  exulting  In  killing,  all  of 


138         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

these  sounds  echoed  through  this  house  of  God. 
And  the  calm  odour  of  incense  arose  above  the 
conflict. 

The  silver  idol  had  not  yet  reached  the  glory 
of  the  altar,  because  the  hostile  forces,  encircling 
the  altar,  had  prevented  it.  Giacobbe,  wounded 
in  many  places,  struck  with  his  scythe,  never  yield- 
ing a  palm's  breadth  of  the  steps  which  he  had 
been  the  first  to  conquer.  There  remained  but 
two  to  support  the  Saint.  The  enormous  white 
head  rolled  as  if  drunk  over  the  wrathful  pool  of 
blood.     The  Mascalicesi  raged. 

Then  Saint  Pantaleone  fell  to  the  pavement, 
giving  a  sharp  rattle  that  stabbed  the  heart  of 
Giacobbe  deeper  than  any  sword  could  have  done. 
As  the  ruddy  mower  darted  over  to  lift  it,  a  huge 
demon  of  a  man  with  a  blow  from  a  sickle 
stretched  the  enemy  on  his  spine. 

Twice  he  arose,  and  two  other  blows  hurled 
him  down  again.  The  blood  inundated  his  en- 
tire face,  breast  and  hands,  while  on  his  shoulders 
and  arms  the  bones,  laid  bare  by  deep  wounds, 
shone  out,  but  still  he  persisted  in  recovering. 
Maddened  by  his  fierce  tenacity  of  life,  three, 
four,  five  ploughmen  together  struck  him  furi- 
ously In  the  stomach,  thus  disgorging  his  entrails. 
The  fanatic  fell  backwards,  struck  his  neck  on  the 


THE  IDOLATERS  139 

bust  of  the  silver  Saint,  turned  suddenly  upon  his 
stomach  with  his  face  pressed  against  the  metal 
and  with  his  arms  extended  before  him  and  his 
legs  contracted  under  him. 

Thus  was  Saint  Pantaleone  lost. 


VIII 
MVNGIA 

THROUGH  all  the  country  of  Pescara,  San 
Silvestro,  Fontanella,  San  Rocco,  even  as 
far  as  Spoltore,  and  through  all  the  farms  of 
Vallelonga  beyond  Allento  and  particularly  in  the 
little  boroughs  where  sailors  meet  near  the  mouth 
of  the  river, — ^through  all  this  country,  where 
the  houses  are  built  of  clay  and  of  reeds,  and 
the  fire  material  is  supplied  by  drift  wood  from 
the  sea,  for  many  years  a  Catholic  rhapsodlst 
with  a  barbarian  and  piratical  name,  who  is  as 
blind  as  the  ancient  Homer,  has  been  famous. 

Mungia  begins  his  peregrinations  at  the  begin- 
ning of  spring,  and  ends  them  with  the  first  frosts 
of  October.  He  goes  about  the  country,  con- 
ducted by  a  woman  and  a  child.  Into  the  peaceful 
gardens  and  the  serenity  of  the  fields  he  brings 
his  lamenting  religious  songs,  antlphonies,  pre- 
ludes and  responses  of  the  offices  of  the  dead. 
His  figure  is  so  familiar  to  all,  that  even  the 

140 


MUNGIA  141 

dogs  in  the  backyards  do  not  bark  at  his  ap- 
proach. He  announces  his  advent  with  a  trill 
from  his  clarionet,  and  at  the  well-known  signal, 
the  old  wives  come  out  upon  the  thresholds  to 
welcome  him,  place  his  chair  under  the  shade  of 
a  tree  in  the  yard,  and  make  inquiries  as  to  his 
health.  All  the  peasants  come  from  their  work, 
and  form  a  subdued  and  awed  circle  about  him, 
while  with  their  hard  hands  they  wipe  the  per- 
spiration of  toil  from  their  foreheads,  and,  still 
holding  their  implements,  assume  a  reverent  atti- 
tude. Their  bare  arms  and  legs  are  knotted  and 
misshapen  from  the  severe  toil  of  the  fields ;  their 
twisted  bodies  have  taken  on  the  hue  of  the 
earth — working  in  the  soil  from  the  dawn  of  day, 
they  seem  to  have  something  in  common  with  the 
trees  and  the  roots. 

A  sort  of  religious  solemnity  Is  thrown  over 
everything  by  this  blind  man.  It  is  not  the  sun. 
It  is  not  the  fulness  of  the  earth,  not  the  joy  of 
spring  vegetation,  not  the  sounds  of  the  distant 
choruses  that  gives  to  all  the  feeling  of  admira- 
tion, of  devotion,  and  more  than  all,  the  sadness 
of  religion.  One  of  the  old  women  gives  the 
name  of  a  departed  relative  to  whom  she  wishes 
to  offer  songs  and  oblations.  Mungia  uncovers 
his  head. 


142         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

His  wide  shining  cranium  appears  encircled 
with  white  hair;  his  whole  face,  which  in  its  quiet 
calm  has  the  appearance  of  a  mask,  wrinkles  up 
when  he  takes  the  clarionet  in  his  mouth.  Upon 
his  temples,  under  his  eyes,  beside  his  ears,  around 
his  nostrils  and  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  a 
thousand  lines  become  visible,  some  delicate,  some 
deep,  changing  with  the  rhythm  of  the  music  by 
which  he  is  inspired.  His  nerves  are  at  a  ten- 
sion, and  over  his  jaw  bones  the  purple  veins 
show,  like  those  of  the  turning  vine-leaves  in  the 
autumn,  the  lower  eyelid  is  turned  outward,  show- 
ing a  reddish  line,  over  his  whole  face  the  tough 
skin  is  tightly  drawn,  giving  the  appearance  of  a 
wonderful  carving  in  relief;  the  light  plays  over 
the  face  with  its  short,  stiff,  and  badly  shaved 
beard,  and  over  the  neck,  with  its  deep  hollows, 
between  the  long  stiff  cords  which  stand  out 
prominently,  flashing  like  dew  upon  a  warty  and 
mouldy  pumpkin;  and,  as  he  plays,  a  thousand 
vibrating  minor  notes  float  out  upon  the  air,  and 
the  humble  head  takes  on  an  appearance  of  mys- 
tery. His  fingers  press  the  unsteady  keys  of  the 
box-wood  clarionet,  and  the  notes  pour  out.  The 
instrument  itself  seems  almost  human,  and  to 
breathe  with  life,  as  inanimate  objects  which  have 
been   long   and   intimately   associated   with  men 


MUNGIA  143 

often  do;  the  wood  has  an  unctuous  glare;  the 
holes,  which  In  the  winter  months  become  the 
nests  of  little  spiders,  are  still  filled  with  cobwebs 
and  dust;  the  keys  are  stained  with  verdigris;  In 
places  beeswax  has  been  employed  to  cover  up 
breaks;  the  joints  are  held  together  with  paper 
and  thread,  while  about  the  edge  one  can  still  see 
the  ornaments  of  its  youth.  The  blind  man's 
voice  rises  weak  and  uncertain,  his  fingers  move 
mechanically,  searching  for  the  notes  of  a  prelude, 
or  an  Interlude  of  days  long  passed. 

His  long,  deformed  hands,  with  knots  upon 
the  phalanges  of  the  first  three  fingers,  and  with 
the  nails  of  his  thumbs  depressed  and  white  In 
colour,  resemble  somewhat  the  hands  of  a  decrepit 
monkey;  the  backs  are  of  the  unhealthy  colour  of 
decayed  fruit,  a  mixture  of  pink,  yellow  and  blue 
shades;  the  palms  show  a  net-work  of  lines  and 
furrows,  and  between  the  fingers  the  skin  is 
blistered. 

When  he  has  finished  the  prelude,  Mungia  be- 
gins to  sing,  ^'Libera  Me  Domine/^  and  *^Ne  Re^ 
corderis/'  slowly,  and  upon  a  modulation  of  five 
notes.  The  Latin  words  of  the  song  are  Inter- 
spersed with  his  native  Idioms,  and  now  and  then, 
to  fill  out  the  metrical  rhythm,  he  Inserts  an  ad- 
verb ending  in  ente,  which  he  follows  with  heavy 


144         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

rhymes;  he  raises  his  voice  in  these  parts,  then 
lowers  it  in  the  less  fatiguing  lines.  The  name 
of  Jesus  runs  often  through  the  rhapsody;  not 
without  a  certain  dramatic  movement.  The  pas- 
sion of  Jesus  is  narrated  in  verses  of  five  lines. 

The  peasants  listen  with  an  air  of  devotion, 
watching  the  blind  man's  mouth  as  he  sings.  In 
the  season,  the  chorus  of  the  vintagers  comes  from 
the  fields,  vieing  with  the  notes  of  the  pious  songs; 
Mungia,  whose  hearing  is  weak,  sings  on  of  the 
mysteries  of  death;  his  lips  adhere  to  his  tooth- 
less gums,  and  the  saliva  runs  down  and  drips 
from  his  chin;  placing  the  clarionet  again  to  his 
lips,  he  begins  the  intermezzo,  then  takes  up  the 
rhymes  again,  and  so  continues  to  the  end.  His 
recompense  Is  a  small  measure  of  corn  and  a  bot- 
tle of  wine  or  a  bunch  of  onions,  and  sometimes  a 
hen. 

He  rises  from  his  chair,  a  tall,  emaciated  fig- 
ure, with  bent  back  and  knees  turning  a  little  back- 
ward. He  wears  upon  his  head  a  large  green 
cap,  and  no  matter  what  the  season,  he  is  wrapped 
In  a  peasant  cloak  falling  from  his  throat  below 
his  knees  and  fastened  with  two  brass  buckles. 
He  moves  with  difficulty,  at  times  stopping  to 
cough. 

When  October  comes,  and  the  vineyards  have 


MUNGIA  145 

been  vintaged  and  the  yards  are  filled  with  mud 
and  gravel,  he  withdraws  into  a  garret,  which  he 
shares  with  a  tailor  who  has  a  paralytic  wife, 
and  a  street  pauper  with  nine  children  who  are 
variously  afflicted  with  scrofula  and  the  rickets. 
On  pleasant  days  he  is  taken  to  the  arch  of 
Portanova,  and  sits  upon  a  rock  in  the  sun,  while 
he  softly  sings  the  ^'De  Profiindis"  to  keep  his 
throat  in  condition.  On  these  occasions,  mendi- 
cants of  all  sorts  gather  around  him,  men  with 
dislocated  limbs,  hunchbacks,  cripples,  paralytics, 
lepers,  women  covered  with  wounds  and  scabs, 
toothless  women,  and  those  without  eyebrows  and 
without  hair;  children,  green  as  locusts,  ema- 
ciated, with  sharp,  savage  eyes,  like  birds  of  prey; 
taciturn,  with  mouths  already  withered;  children 
who  bear  in  their  blood  diseases  inherited  from 
the  monster  Poverty;  all  of  that  miserable,  de- 
generate rabble,  the  remnants  of  a  decrepit  race. 
These  ragged  children  of  God  come  to  gather 
about  the  singer,  and  speak  to  him  as  one  of  them- 
selves. 

Then  Mungia  graciously  begins  to  sing  to  the 
waiting  crowd.  Chiachiu,  a  native  of  Silvi,  ap- 
proaches, dragging  himself  with  great  difficulty, 
helping  himself  with  the  palms  of  his  hands,  on 
which  he  wears  a  covering  of  leather;  when  he 


146        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

reaches  the  group  about  Mungia,  he  stops,  hold- 
ing in  his  hands  his  right  foot,  which  Is  twisted  and 
contorted  like  a  root.  Strlgia,  an  uncertain,  re- 
pugnant figure,  a  senile  hermaphrodite  with  bright 
red  carbuncles  covering  neck  and  grey  locks  on 
the  temples,  of  which  the  creature  seems  to  be 
proud,  the  top  and  back  of  the  head  covered  with 
wool  like  a  vulture,  next  approaches.  Then  come 
the  Mammalucchi,  three  Idiot  brothers,  who  seem 
to  have  been  brought  forth  from  the  union  of 
man  and  goat,  so  manifest  In  their  faces  are  the 
ovine  features.  The  oldest  of  the  three  has  some 
soft,  degenerated  bulbs  protruding  from  the  orbs 
of  his  eyes,  of  a  bluish  colour,  much  like  oval  bags 
of  pulp  about  to  rot.  The  peculiar  affliction  of 
the  youngest  is  In  his  ear,  the  lobe  of  which  Is 
abnormally  Inflated,  and  of  the  violet  hue  of  a 
fig.  The  three  come  together,  with  bags  of 
strings  upon  their  backs. 

The  Ossel  comes  also,  a  lean,  serpent-like  man 
with  an  olive-coloured  face,  a  flat  nose  with  a  sin- 
gular aspect  of  malice  and  deceit,  which  betrays 
his  gipsy  origin,  and  eyelids  which  turn  up  like 
those  of  a  pilot  who  sails  over  stormy  seas.  Fol- 
lowing him  Is  Catalana  dl  Gissi,  a  woman  of  un- 
certain age,  her  skin  covered  with  long  reddish 
blisters,  and  on  her  forehead  spots  looking  like 


MUNGIA  147 

copper  coins,  hipless,  like  a  bitch  after  confine- 
ment :  she  is  called  the  Venus  of  the  Mendicants, 
— the  fountain  of  Love  at  which  all  the  thirsty 
ones  are  quenched. 

Then  comes  Jacobbe  of  Campli,  an  old  man 
with  greenish-coloured  hair  like  some  of  the  me- 
chanics' work  in  brass;  then  industrious  Gargala 
in  a  vehicle  built  of  the  remains  of  broken  boats, 
still  smeared  with  tar;  then  Constantino  di  Corro- 
poli,  the  cynic,  whose  lower  lip  has  a  growth  which 
gives  him  the  appearance  of  holding  a  piece  of 
raw  meat  between  his  teeth.  And  still  they  come, 
inhabitants  of  the  woods  who  have  moved  along 
the  course  of  the  river  from  the  hills  to  the  sea; 
all  gather  around  the  rhapsodist  in  the  sun. 

Mungia  then  sings  with  studied  gestures  and 
strange  postures.  His  soul  is  filled  with  exalta- 
tion, an  aureole  of  glory  surrounds  him,  for  now 
he  gives  himself  freely  to  his  Muse,  unrestrained 
in  his  singing.  He  scarcely  hears  the  clamour  of 
applause  which  arises  from  the  swarming  mendi- 
cants as  he  closes. 

At  the  end  of  the  song,  as  the  warm  sun  has 
left  the  spot  where  the  group  is  assembled  and  is 
climbing  the  Corinthian  columns  of  the  arch  of 
the  Capitol,  the  mendicants  bid  the  blind  man 
farewell  and  disperse  through  the  neighbouring 


148         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

lands.  Usually  Chiachiu  di  SIlvi,  holding  his  de- 
formed foot,  and  the  dwarfed  brothers  remain 
after  the  others  have  gone,  asking  alms  of  passers- 
by,  while  Mungia  sits  silent,  thinking,  perhaps,  of 
the  triumphs  of  his  youth  when  Lucicoppelle, 
Golpo  di  Casoli,  and  Quattorece  were  alive. 

Oh,  the  glorious  band  of  Mungia !  The  small 
orchestra  had  won  through  all  the  lower  valley 
of  Pescara  a  lofty  fame.  Golpo  di  Casoli  played 
the  viola.  He  was  a  greyish  little  man,  like  the 
lizards  on  the  rocks,  with  the  skin  of  his  face 
and  neck  wrinkled  and  membranous  like  that  of 
a  turtle  boiled  in  water.  He  wore  a  sort  of 
Phrygian  cap  which  covered  his  ears  on  the  sides. 
He  played  on  his  viola  with  quick  gestures,  press- 
ing the  Instrument  with  his  sharp  chin  and  with 
his  contracted  fingers  hammering  the  keys  in  an 
ostentatious  effort,  as  do  the  monkeys  of  wander- 
ing mountebanks. 

After  him  came  Quattorece  with  his  bass  viol 
slung  over  his  stomach  by  a  strap  of  ass-leather; 
he  was  as  tall  and  thin  as  a  wax  candle,  and 
throughout  his  person  was  a  predominance  of 
orange  tints;  he  looked  like  one  of  those  mono- 
chromatic painted  figures  in  stiff  attitudes  which 
ornament  some  of  the  poetry  of  Castelli ;  his  eyes 
shone  with  the  yellow  transparency  of  a  shepherd 


MUNGIA  149 

dog^s,  the  cartilage  of  his  great  ears  opened  like 
those  of  a  bat  against  which  an  orange  light  is 
thrown,  his  clothes  were  of  some  tobacco-coloured 
cloth,  such  as  hunters  usually  wear;  while  his  old 
viol,  ornamented  with  feathers,  with  silver  adorn- 
ments, bows,  images,  and  medals,  looked  like 
some  barbarian  instrument  from  which  one  might 
expect  strange  sounds  to  issue.  But  Lucic®ppelle, 
holding  across  his  chest  his  rough,  two-stringed 
guitar,  well  tuned  in  diapason,  came  in  last,  with 
the  bold,  dancing  step  of  a  rustic  Figaro.  He  was 
the  joyful  spirit  of  the  orchestra,  the  greenest  one 
in  age  and  strength,  the  liveliest  and  the  brightest. 
A  heavy  tuft  of  crisp  hair  fell  over  his  forehead 
under  a  scarlet  cap,  and  in  his  ears  shone  woman- 
like, two  silver  clasps.  He  loved  wine  as  a  musi- 
cal toast.  To  serenades  in  honour  of  beauty,  to 
open-air  dances,  to  gorgeous,  boisterous  feasts,  to 
weddings,  to  christenings,  to  votive  feasts  and 
funeral  rites,  the  band  of  Mungia  would  hasten, 
expected  and  acclaimed.  The  nuptial  procession 
would  move  through  the  streets  strewn  with  bul- 
rush blossoms  and  sweet-scented  herbs,  greeted 
with  joyful  shouts  and  salutes.  Five  mules,  deco- 
rated with  wreaths,  carried  the  wedding  presents. 
In  a  cart  drawn  by  two  oxen  whose  harness  was 
wound  with  ribbons,  and  whose  backs  were  cov- 


ISO        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

ered  with  draperies,  were  seated  the  bridal  couple; 
from  the  cart  dangled  boilers,  earthen  vessels, 
and  copper  pots,  which  shook  and  rattled  with  the 
jolting  of  the  vehicle;  chairs,  tables,  sofas,  all 
sorts  of  antique  shapes  of  household  furniture 
oscillated,  creaking,  about  them;  damask  skirts, 
richly  figured  with  flowers,  embroidered  waist- 
coats, silken  aprons,  and  all  sorts  of  articles  of 
women's  apparel  shone  in  the  sun  in  bright  array, 
while  a  distaff,  the  symbol  of  domestic  virtue, 
piled  on  top  with  the  linen,  was  outlined  against 
the  blue  sky  like  a  golden  staff. 

The  women  relatives,  carrying  upon  their  heads 
baskets  of  grain,  upon  the  top  of  which  was  a 
loaf,  and  upon  the  loaf  a  flower,  came  next  in 
hierarchal  order,  singing  as  they  walked.  This 
train  of  simple,  graceful  figures  reminded  one  of 
the  canephorae  in  the  Greek  bas-reliefs.  Reach- 
ing the  house,  the  women  took  the  baskets  from 
their  heads,  and  threw  a  handful  of  wheat  at  the 
bride,  pronouncing  a  ritual  augury,  invoking  fe- 
cundity and  abundance.  The  mother,  also,  ob- 
served the  ceremony  of  throwing  grain,  weeping 
copiously  as  with  a  brush  she  touched  her  daugh- 
ter on  the  chest,  shoulders  and  forehead,  and 
speaking  doleful  words  of  love  as  she  did  so. 

Then    in    the    courtyard,    under    a    roof    of 


MUNGIA  151 

branches,  the  feast  began.  Mungia,  who  had  not 
yet  lost  his  eyesight  nor  felt  the  burden  of  years 
upon  him,  erect  in  all  the  magnificence  of  a  green 
coat,  perspiring  and  beaming,  blew  with  all  the 
power  of  his  lungs  upon  his  clarionet,  beating  time 
with  his  foot.  Golpo  di  Casoli  struck  his  violin 
energetically,  Quattorece  exerted  himself  in  a  wild 
endeavour  to  keep  up  with  the  crescendo  of  the 
Moorish  dance,  while  Lucicoppelle,  standing 
straight  with  his  head  up,  holding  aloft  in  his  left 
hand  the  key  of  his  guitar,  and  with  the  right 
pricking  on  two  strings  the  metric  chords,  looked 
down  at  the  women,  laughing  gaily  among  the 
flowers. 

Then  the  "Master  of  Ceremonies"  brought  In 
the  viands  on  large  painted  plates  and  the  cloud 
of  vapour  rising  from  the  hot  dishes  faded  away 
among  the  foliage  of  the  trees.  The  amphoras 
of  wine,  with  their  well-worn  handles,  were  passed 
around  from  one  to  another,  the  men  stretched 
their  arms  out  across  the  table  between  the  loaves 
of  bread,  scattered  with  anise  seeds,  and  the 
cheese  cakes,  round  as  full  moons,  and  helped 
themselves  to  olives,  oranges  and  almonds.  The 
smell  of  spice  mingled  with  the  fresh,  vaporous 
odour  of  the  vegetables;  sometimes  the  guests  of- 
fered the  bride  goblets  of  wine  in  which  were 


152        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

small  pieces  of  jewelry,  or  necklaces  of  great  grape 
stones  like  a  string  of  golden  fruit.  After  a  while 
the  exhilarating  effects  of  the  liquor  began  to  be 
felt,  and  the  crowd  grew  hilarious  with  Bacchic 
joy  and  then  Mungia,  advancing  with  uncovered 
head  and  holding  in  his  hands  a  glass  filled  to 
the  rim,  would  sing  the  beautiful  deistic  ritual 
which  to  feasters  throughout  the  land  of  Abruzzi 
gave  a  disposition  for  friendly  toasts : 

"To  the  health  of  all  these  friends  of  mine, 
united,  I  drink  this  wine  so  pure  and  fine." 


IX 
THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA 


THREE  days  after  the  customary  Easter  ban- 
quet, which  in  the  house  Lamonica  was 
always  sumptuous  and  crowded  with  feasters  by 
virtue  of  its  traditions,  Donna  Cristina  Lamonica 
counted  her  table  linen  and  silver  while  she  placed 
each  article  systematically  in  chest  and  safe,  ready 
for  future  similar  occasions. 

With  her,  as  usual,  at  this  task  and  aiding,  were 
the  maid  Maria  Bisaccia  and  the  laundress  Can- 
dida Marcanda,  popularly  known  as  "Candia." 
The  large  baskets  heaped  with  fine  linen  rested 
in  a  row  on  the  pavement.  The  vases  of  silver 
and  the  other  table  ornaments  sparkled  upon  a 
tray;  they  were  solidly  fashioned,  if  somewhat 
rudely,  by  rustic  silversmiths,  in  shape  almost 
liturgical,  as  are  all  of  the  vases  that  the  rich 
provincial  families  hand  down  from  generation  to 


154        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

generation.  The  fresh  fragrance  of  bleached 
linen  permeated  the  room. 

Candia  took  from  the  baskets  the  doilies,  the 
table  cloths  and  the  napkins,  had  the  "signora" 
examine  the  linen  intact,  and  handed  one  piece 
after  another  to  Maria,  who  filled  up  the  draw- 
ers while  the  "signora"  scattered  through  the 
spaces  an  aroma,  and  took  notes  in  a  book.  Can- 
dia was  a  tall  woman,  large-boned,  parched,  fifty 
years  of  age;  her  back  was  slightly  curved  from 
bending  over  in  that  position  habitual  to  her  pro- 
fession ;  she  had  very  long  arms  and  the  head  of 
a  bird  of  prey  resting  upon  the  neck  of  a  tortoise. 
Maria  Bisaccia  was  an  Ortonesian,  a  little  fleshy, 
of  milk-white  complexion,  also  possessing  very 
clear  eyes ;  she  had  a  soft  manner  of  speaking  and 
made  slow,  delicate  gestures  like  one  who  was  ac- 
customed habitually  to  exercise  her  hands  amongst 
sweet  pastry,  syrups,  preserves  and  confection- 
ery. Donna  Cristina,  also  a  native  of  Ortona, 
educated  in  a  Benedictine  monastery,  was  small  of 
stature,  dressed  somewhat  carelessly,  with  hair 
of  a  reddish  tendency,  a  face  scattered  with 
freckles,  a  nose  long  and  thick,  bad  teeth,  and 
most  beautiful  and  chaste  eyes  which  resembled 
those  of  a  priest  disguised  as  a  woman. 

The  three  women  attended  to  the  work  with 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA  155 

much  assiduity,  spending  thus  a  large  part  of  the 
afternoon. 

At  length,  just  as  Candia  went  out  with  the 
empty  baskets.  Donna  Cristina  counted  the  pieces 
of  silver  and  found  that  a  spoon  was  missing. 

*'MariaI  Maria!"  she  cried,  suddenly  panic- 
stricken.  *'One  spoon  is  lacking  .  .  .  Count 
them!    Quick!" 

"But  how?  It  cannot  be,  SIgnora,"  Maria  an- 
swered. "Allow  me  a  glance  at  them."  She  be- 
gan to  re-sort  the  pieces,  calling  their  numbers 
aloud.  Donna  Cristina  looked  on  and  shook  her 
head.    The  silver  clinked  musically. 

"An  actual  fact !"  Maria  exclaimed  at  last  with 
a  motion  of  despair.  "And  now  what  are  we  to 
do?" 

She  was  quite  above  suspicion.  She  had 
given  proof  of  fidelity  and  honesty  for  fifteen 
years  in  that  family.  She  had  come  from  Ortona 
with  Donna  Cristina  at  the  time  of  her  marriage, 
almost  constituting  a  part  of  the  marriage  por- 
tion, and  had  always  exercised  a  certain  authority 
in  the  household  under  the  protection  of  the  "sig- 
nora."  She  was  full  of  religious  superstition,  de- 
voted to  her  especial  saint  and  her  especial  church, 
and  finally,  she  was  very  astute.  With  the  "slg- 
nora"  she  had  united  In  a  kind  of  hostile  alliance 


156        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

to  everything  pertaining  to  Pescara,  and  espe- 
cially to  the  popular  saint  of  these  Pescareslan 
people.  On  every  occasion  she  quoted  the  country 
of  her  birth,  Its  beauties  and  riches,  the  splendours 
of  its  basilica,  the  treasures  of  San  Tomaso,  the 
magnificence  of  Its  ecclesiastical  ceremonies  in  con- 
trast to  the  meagreness  of  San  Cetteo,  which  pos- 
sessed but  a  solitary,  small,  holy  arm  of  silver. 

At  length  Donna  Cristina  said,  "Look  care- 
fully everywhere." 

Maria  left  the  room  to  begin  a  search.  She 
penetrated  all  the  angles  of  the  kitchen  and  loggia, 
but  in  vain,  and  returned  at  last  with  empty  hands. 

"There  Is  no  such  thing  about!  Neither  here 
nor  there!"  she  cried.  Then  the  two  set  them- 
selves to  thinking,  to  heaping  up  conjectures,  to 
searching  their  memories. 

They  went  out  on  the  loggia  that  bordered  the 
court,  on  the  loggia  belonging  to  the  laundry,  In 
order  to  make  a  final  examination.  As  their 
speech  grew  louder,  the  occupants  of  the  neigh- 
bouring houses  appeared  at  their  windows. 

"What  has  befallen  you?  Donna  Cristina,  tell 
us!  Tell  us!"  they  cried.  Donna  Cristina  and 
Maria  recounted  their  story  with  many  words 
and  gestures. 

"Jesu!    Jesu!    then    there    must    be    thieves 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA  157 

among  us  I"  In  less  than  no  time  the  rumour  of 
this  theft  spread  throughout  the  vicinity,  in  fact 
through  all  of  Pescara.  Men  and  women  fell  to 
arguing,  to  surmising,  whom  the  thief  might  be. 
The  story  on  reaching  the  most  remote  house  of 
Sant*  Agostina,  was  huge  in  proportions;  it  no 
longer  told  of  a  single  spoon,  but  of  all  the  silver 
of  the  Lamonica  house. 

Now,  as  the  weather  was  beautiful  and  the 
roses  in  the  loggia  had  commenced  to  bloom,  and 
two  canaries  were  singing  in  their  cages,  the  neigh- 
bours detained  one  another  at  the  windows  for  the 
sheer  pleasure  of  chattering  about  the  season 
with  its  soothing  warmth.  The  heads  of  the 
women  appeared  amongst  the  vases  of  basil,  and 
the  hubbub  they  made  seemed  especially  to  please 
the  cats  in  the  caves  above. 

Donna  Cristina  clasped  her  hands  and  cried, 
"Who  could  it  have  been?" 

Donna  Isabella  Sertale,  nicknamed  "The  Cat," 
who  had  the  stealthy,  furtive  movements  of  a 
beast  of  prey,  called  in  a  twanging  voice,  "Who 
has  been  with  you  this  long  time.  Donna  Cris- 
tina? It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  seen  Candia 
come  and  go." 

"A-a-ia-h!"   exclaimed  Donna   Felicetta   Mar- 


158        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

gasanta,  called  "The  Magpipe,"  because  of  her 
everlasting  garrulity. 

"Ah!"  the  other  neighbours  repeated  in  turn. 

"And  you  had  not  thought  of  her?" 

"And  did  you  not  observe  her?" 

"And  don't  you  know  of  what  metal  Candia  is 
made?" 

"We  would  do  well  to  tell  you  of  herl" 

"That  we  would!" 

"We  would  do  well  to  tell  you !" 

"She  washes  the  clothes  in  goodly  fashion, 
there  is  none  to  dispute  that.  She  is  the  best  laun- 
dress that  dwells  in  Pescara,  one  cannot  help  say- 
ing that.  But  she  holds  a  defect  in  her  five 
fingers.     Did  you  not  know  that,  now?" 

"Once  two  of  my  doilies  disappeared." 

"And  I  missed  a  tablecloth." 

"And  I  a  shift  shirt." 

"And  I  three  pairs  of  stockings." 

"And  I  two  pillow-cases." 

"And  I  a  new  skirt." 

"And  I  failed  to  recover  an  article." 

"I  have  lost " 

"And  I,  too." 

"I  have  not  driven  her  out,  for  who  is  there 
to  fill  her  place?" 

"Silvestra?" 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA         159 

"No!    No  I" 

"Angelantonia  ?     Balascetta?** 

"Each  worse  than  the  other!'' 

"One  must  have  patience." 

"But  a  spoon,  think  of  that!" 

"It's  too  much!  it  is!" 

"Don't  remain  silent  about  it,  Donna  Cristina, 
don't  remain  silent!" 

"Whether  silent  or  not  silent !"  burst  out  Maria 
Bisaccia,  who  for  all  her  placid  and  benign  ex- 
pression never  let  a  chance  escape  her  to  oppress 
or  put  in  a  bad  light  the  other  servants  of  the 
house,  "we  will  think  for  ourselves!" 

In  this  fashion  the  chatter  from  the  windows  on 
the  loggia  continued,  and  accusation  fled  from 
mouth  to  mouth  throughout  the  entire  district. 

II 

The  following  morning,  when  Candia  Mar- 
canda  had  her  hands  in  the  soap-suds,  there  ap- 
peared at  her  door-sill  the  town  guard  Biaglo 
Pesce,  popularly  known  as  "The  Corporal."  He 
said  to  her,  "You  are  wanted  by  SIgnor  Sindaco 
at  the  town-hall  this  very  moment." 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Candia,  knitting 
her  brows  without  discontinuing  her  task. 


i6o        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

*'You  are  wanted  by  Signer  Sindaco  at  the 
town-hall  this  very  moment." 

"I  am  wanted?  And  why?"  Candia  asked  in 
a  brusque  manner.  She  did  not  know  what  was 
responsible  for  this  unexpected  summons  and 
therefore  reared  at  it  like  a  stubborn  animal  be- 
fore a  shadow. 

"I  cannot  know  the  reason,"  answered  the  Cor- 
poral.    "I  have  received  but  an  order." 

*'What  order?" 

The  woman  because  of  an  obstinacy  natural 
to  her  could  not  refrain  from  questions.  She  was 
unable  to  realise  the  truth. 

"I  am  wanted  by  Signor  Sindaco?  And  why? 
And  what  have  I  done?  I  have  no  wish  to  go 
there.     I  have  done  nothing  unseemly." 

Then  the  Corporal  cried  impatiently,  "Ah,  you 
do  not  wish  to  go  there  ?  You  had  better  beware !" 
And  he  went  away  muttering,  with  his  hand  on 
the  hilt  of  his  shabby  sword. 

Meanwhile  several  who  had  heard  the  dialogue 
came  from  their  doorways  into  the  street  and  be- 
gan to  stare  at  the  laundress,  who  was  violently 
attacking  her  wash.  Since  they  knew  of  the  sil- 
ver spoon  they  laughed  at  one  another  and  made 
remarks  that  the  laundress  did  not  understand. 
Their  ridicule  and  ambiguous  expressions  filled 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA  i6i 

the  heart  of  the  woman  with  much  uneasiness, 
which  increased  when  the  Corporal  appeared  ac- 
companied by  another  guard. 

"Now  move  on!"  he  said  resolutely. 

Candia  wiped  her  arms  in  silence  and  went. 
Throughout  the  square  everyone  stopped  to  look. 
Rosa  Panara,  an  enemy,  from  the  threshold  of 
her  shop,  called  with  a  fierce  laugh,  "Drop  the 
bone  thou  hast  picked  up !" 

The  laundress,  bewildered,  unable  to  imagine 
the  cause  of  this  persecution,  could  not  answer. 

Before  the  town-hall  stood  a  group  of  curious 
people  who  waited  to  see  her  pass.  Candia,  sud- 
denly seized  with  a  wrathful  spirit,  mounted  the 
stairs  quickly,  came  into  the  presence  of  Signor 
Sindaco  out  of  breath,  and  asked,  "Now,  what  do 
you  want  with  me?" 

Don  Silla,  a  man  of  peaceable  temperament,  re- 
mained for  a  moment  somewhat  taken  aback  by 
the  sharp  voice  of  the  laundress  and  turned  a  be- 
seeching look  upon  the  faithful  custodians  of  the 
communal  dignity.  Then  he  took  some  tobacco 
from  a  horn-box  and  said,  "Be  seated,  my 
daughter." 

Candia  remained  upon  her  feet.  Her  hooked 
nose  was  inflated  with  choler,  and  her  cheeks, 


1 62         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

roughly  seamed,  trembled  from  the  contraction  of 
her  tightly  compressed  jaws. 

"Speak  quickly,  Don  SlUa !"  she  cried. 

"You  were  occupied  yesterday  in  carrying  back 
the  clean  linen  to  Donna  Cristina  Lamonica?" 

"Well,  and  what  of  it?  Is  she  missing  some- 
thing? Everything  was  counted  piece  by  piece 
.  .  .  nothing  was  lacking.  Now,  what  is  it  all 
about?" 

"One  moment,  my  daughter!  The  room  had 
silver  in  it  ... ! 

Candia,  divining  the  truth,  turned  upon  him  like 
a  viper  about  to  sting.  At  the  same  time  her 
thin  lips  trembled. 

"The  room  had  silver  in  it,'*  he  continued,  "and 
now  Donna  Cristina  finds  herself  lacking  one 
spoon.  Do  you  understand,  my  daughter?  Was 
it  taken  by  you  .  .  .  through  mistake?" 

Candia  jumped  like  a  grasshopper  at  this  un- 
deserved accusation.  In  truth  she  had  stolen 
nothing.  "Ah,  I?  I?"  she  cried.  "Who  says  I 
took  it?  Who  has  seen  me  in  such  an  act?  You 
fill  me  with  amazement  .  .  .  you  fill  me  with 
wonder!    DonSIlla!    I  a  thief?    I?    I?..." 

And  her  indignation  had  no  limit.  She  was 
even  more  wounded  by  this  unjust  accusation  be- 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA  163 

cause  she  felt  herself  capable  of  the  deed  which 
they  had  attributed  to  her. 

'Then  you  have  not  taken  it?"  Don  Silla  in- 
terrupted, withdrawing  prudently  into  the  depths 
of  his  large  chair. 

"You  fill  me  with  amazement!"  Candia  chided 
afresh,  while  she  shook  her  long  hands  as  if  they 
were  two  whips. 

"Very  well,  you  may  go.  We  will  see  in 
time."  Without  saying  good-bye,  Candia  made  her 
exit,  striking  against  the  door-post  as  she  did  so. 
She  had  become  green  in  the  face  and  was  beside 
herself  with  rage.  On  reaching  the  street  and  see- 
ing the  crowd  assembled  there,  she  understood  at 
length  that  popular  opinion  was  against  her,  that 
no  one  believed  in  her  innocence.  Nevertheless 
she  began  publicly  to  exculpate  herself.  The  peo- 
ple laughed  and  drifted  away  from  her.  In  a 
wrathful  state  of  mind  she  returned  home,  sank 
into  a  condition  of  despair  and  fell  to  weeping  in 
her  doorway. 

Don  Donato  Brandimarte,  who  lived  next  door, 
said  to  her  by  way  of  a  joke : 

"Cry  aloud,  Candia.  Cry  to  the  full  extent  of 
your  strength,  for  the  people  are  about  to  pass 
now." 

As  there  were  clothes  lying  in  a  heap  waiting 


i64        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

to  be  boiled  clean  she  finally  grew  quiet,  bared 
her  arms  and  set  herself  to  work.  While  work- 
ing, she  brooded  on  how  to  clear  her  character, 
constructed  a  method  of  defence,  sought  in  her 
cunning,  feminine  thoughts  an  artificial  means  for 
proving  her  innocence ;  balancing  her  mind  subtly 
in  mid-air,  she  had  recourse  to  all  of  those  ex- 
pedients which  constitute  an  ignorant  argument, 
in  order  to  present  a  defence  that  might  persuade 
the  incredulous. 

Later,  when  she  had  finished  her  task,  she  went 
out  and  went  first  to  Donna  Cristina. 

Donna  Cristina  would  not  see  her.  Maria 
Bisaccia  listened  to  Candia's  proHfic  words  and 
shook  her  head  without  reply  and  at  length  left 
her  in  a  dignified  way. 

Then  Candia  visited  all  of  her  customers.  To 
each  one  she  told  her  story,  to  each  one  she  laid 
bare  her  defence,  always  adding  to  it  a  new  argu- 
ment, ever  Increasing  the  size  of  the  words,  be- 
coming more  heated  and  finally  despairing  in  the 
presence  of  Incredulity  and  distrust  as  all  was 
useless.  She  felt  at  last  that  an  explanation  was 
no  longer  possible.  A  kind  of  dark  discourage- 
ment fastened  upon  her  mind.  What  more  could 
she  do!    What  more  could  she  say! 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA         165 


III 

Donna  Cristina  Lamonica,  meanwhile,  sent  for 
La  CInlgIa,  a  woman  of  the  Ignorant  masses,  who 
followed  the  profession  of  magic  and  unscientific 
medicine.  Previously,  La  CInigia  had  several 
times  discovered  stolen  goods  and  some  said  that 
she  had  underhand  dealings  with  the  thieves. 

Donna  Cristina  said  to  her,  "Recover  the  spoon 
for  me  and  I  will  give  you  a  rich  present." 

La  CInigia  answered,  "Very  well.  Twenty- 
four  hours  will  suffice  me."  And  after  twenty- 
four  hours  she  brought  the  news,  "The  spoon  is 
to  be  found  in  the  court  in  a  hole  adjacent  to  the 
sewer."  Donna  Cristina  and  Maria  descended  to 
the  court,  searched,  and  to  their  great  astonish- 
ment found  the  missing  piece. 

The  news  spread  rapidly  throughout  Pescara. 
Then  in  triumph,  Candia  Marcanda  immediately 
began  to  frequent  the  streets.  She  seemed  taller, 
held  her  head  more  erect  and  smiled  Into  the  eyes 
of  everyone  as  if  to  say,  "Now  you  have  seen  for 
yourselves?" 

The  people  in  the  shops,  when  she  passed  by, 
murmured  something  and  then  broke  Into  laugh- 
ter.    Fllippo  Selvi,  who  was  drinking  a  glass  of 


1 66         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

brandy  in  the  Cafe  d'Angeladea,  called  to  Can- 
dia,  "Over  here  is  a  glass  waiting  for  Candia." 

The  woman,  who  loved  ardent  liquor,  moved 
her  lips  greedily. 

Filippo  Selvl  added,  "And  you  are  deserving 
of  it,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that." 

A  crowd  of  idlers  had  assembled  before  the 
cafe.  All  wore  a  teasing  expression  upon  their 
countenances.  Filippo  La  Selvi  having  turned  to 
his  audience  while  the  woman  was  drinking, 
vouchsafed,  "And  she  knew  how  to  find  it,  did 
she?    The  old  fox..  ." 

He  struck  familiarly  the  bony  shoulder  of  the 
laundress  by  way  of  prelude. 

Everyone  laughed. 

Magnafave,  a  small  hunchback,  defective  in 
body  and  speech  and  halting  on  the  syllables, 
cried: 

"Ca-ca-ca — Candia — a — and — Cinigia !"  He 
followed  this  with  gesticulations  and  wary  stut- 
terings,  all  of  which  implied  that  Candia  and  La 
Cinigia  were  in  league.  At  this  the  crowd  be- 
came convulsed  with  mirth. 

Candia  remained  dazed  for  a  moment  with  the 
glass  in  her  hand.  Then  of  a  sudden  she  under- 
stood. They  still  did  not  believe  In  her  innocence. 
They  were  accusing  her  of  having  secretly  carried 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA  167 

back  the  spoon,  in  agreement  with  the  fortune- 
teller as  to  the  placing  of  it,  in  order  to  escape 
disgrace. 

At  this  thought,  the  blind  grip  of  rage  seized 
her.  She  could  not  find  words  for  speech.  She 
threw  herself  upon  the  weakest  of  her  tormentors, 
which  was  the  small  hunchback,  and  belaboured 
him  with  blows  and  scratches.  The  crowd,  tak- 
ing a  cruel  pleasure  in  witnessing  the  scuffle, 
cheered  itself  into  a  circle  as  if  watching  the  strug- 
gle of  two  animals,  and  encouraged  both  com- 
batants with  cries  and  gesticulations. 

Magnafave,  terrified  by  her  unexpected  mad- 
ness, sought  to  flee,  dodging  like  a  monkey;  but, 
detained  by  those  terrible  hands  of  the  laundress, 
he  whirled  with  ever-increasing  velocity,  like  a 
stone  from  a  sling,  until  at  length  he  fell  upon  his 
face  with  great  violence. 

Several  ran  forward  to  raise  him.  Candia 
withdrew  in  the  midst  of  hisses,  shut  herself  up 
in  her  house,  threw  herself  across  her  bed,  weep- 
ing and  biting  her  fingers.  This  latest  accusation 
burnt  into  her  more  than  the  former,  particularly 
because  she  realised  that  she  was  capable  of  such 
a  subterfuge.  How  to  disentangle  herself  now? 
How  make  the  truth  clear?  She  grew  desperate 
on  thinking  that  she  could  not  bring  to  the  aid  of 


i68        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

her  argument  any  material  difficulties  that  might 
have  hindered  the  execution  of  such  a  deceit.  Ac- 
cess to  the  court  was  very  easy;  a  never  closed 
door  was  on  the  first  landing-place  of  a  large 
staircase  and  in  order  to  dispose  of  waste  matter 
and  to  attend  to  other  diverse  duties,  a  quantity 
of  people  passed  freely  in  and  out  of  that  door- 
way. Therefore  she  could  not  close  the  mouths 
of  her  accusers  by  saying,  ''How  could  I  have 
got  in  there  ?"  The  means  for  accomplishing  such 
an  undertaking  were  many  and  simple,  and  on  this 
very  lack  of  obstacles  popular  opinion  chose  to 
establish  itself. 

Candia  therefore  sought  different  persuasive 
arguments;  she  sharpened  all  her  cunning,  im- 
agined three,  four,  five  separate  circumstances 
that  might  easily  account  for  the  finding  of  the 
spoon  in  that  hole;  she  took  refuge  in  mental 
turnings  and  twistings  of  every  kind  and  subtilised 
with  singular  ingenuity.  Later  she  began  to  go 
around  from  shop  to  shop,  from  house  to  house, 
straining  in  every  way  to  overcome  the  incredulity 
of  the  people. 

At  first  they  listened  to  her  enticing  arguments 
for  a  diversion.  At  last  they  said,  "Oh,  very  well  I 
Very  well  I"    But  with  a  certain  inflection  of  the 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDIA  169 

voice  which  left  Candia  crushed.  All  her  efforts 
then  were  useless.     No  one  believed! 

With  an  astonishing  persistency,  she  returned 
to  the  siege.  She  passed  entire  nights  pondering 
on  new  reasons,  how  to  construct  new  explana- 
tions, to  overcome  new  obstacles.  Little  by  little, 
from  the  continuous  absorption,  her  mind  weak- 
ened, could  not  entertain  any  thought  save  that 
of  the  spoon,  and  had  scarcely  any  longer  any 
realisation  of  the  events  of  every  day  life.  Later, 
through  the  cruelty  of  the  people,  a  veritable 
mania  arose  in  the  mind  of  the  poor  woman. 

She  neglected  her  duties  and  was  reduced  al- 
most to  penury.  She  washed  the  clothes  badly, 
lost  and  tore  them.  When  she  descended  to  the 
bank  of  the  river  under  the  iron-bridge  where  the 
other  laundresses  had  collected,  at  times  she  let 
escape  from  her  hands  garments  which  the  cur- 
rent snatched  and  they  were  gone  forever.  She 
babbled  continuously  on  the  same  subject.  To 
drown  her  out  the  young  laundresses  set  them- 
selves to  singing  and  to  bantering  one  another 
from  their  places  with  impromptu  verses.  She 
shouted  and  gesticulated  like  a  mad  woman. 

No  one  any  longer  gave  her  work.  Out  of  com- 
passion for  her,  her  former  customers  sent  her 
food.    Little  by  little  the  habit  of  begging  settled 


170        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

upon  her.  She  walked  the  streets,  ragged,  bent, 
and  dishevelled.  Impertinent  boys  called  after 
her,  "Now  tell  us  the  story  of  the  spoon,  that 
we  may  know  about  it,  do,  Candial" 

She  stopped  sometimes  unknown  passersby  to 
recount  her  story  and  to  wander  into  the  mazes 
of  her  defence.  The  scapegoats  of  the  town 
hailed  her  and  for  a  cent  made  her  deliver  her 
narration  three,  four  times;  they  raised  objections 
to  her  arguments  and  were  attentive  to  the  end  of 
the  tale  for  the  sake  of  wounding  her  at  last  with 
a  single  word.  She  shook  her  head,  moved  on 
and  clung  to  other  feminine  beggars  and  reasoned 
with  them,  always,  always  Indefatigable  and  un- 
conquerable. She  took  a  fancy  to  a  deaf  woman 
whose  skin  was  afflicted  with  a  kind  of  reddish 
leprosy,  and  who  was  lame  in  one  leg. 

In  the  winter  of  1874  a  malignant  fever  seized 
her.  Donna  Cristina  Lamonica  sent  her  a  cor- 
dial and  a  hand-warmer.  The  sick  woman, 
stretched  on  her  straw  pallet,  still  babbled  about 
the  spoon.  She  raised  on  her  elbows,  tried  to  mo- 
tion with  her  hands  in  order  to  assist  In  the  sum- 
ming up  of  her  conclusions.  The  leprous  woman 
took  her  hands  and  gently  soothed  her. 

In  her  last  throes,  when  her  enlarged  eyes  were 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  CANDLi  171 

already  being  veiled  behind  some  suffusing  mois- 
ture that  had  mounted  to  them  from  within,  Can- 
dia  murmured,  "I  was  not  the  one,  Signor  .  .  . 
you  see  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  the  spoon  .  .  .'* 


X 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OFENA 


WHEN  the  first  confused  clamour  of  the  re- 
bellion reached  Don  Filippo  Cassaura,  he 
suddenly  opened  his  eyelids,  that  weighed  heavily 
upon  his  eyes,  inflamed  around  the  upturned  lids, 
like  those  of  pirates  who  sail  through  stormy  seas. 

"Did  you  hear?"  he  asked  of  Mazzagrogna, 
who  was  standing  nearby,  while  the  trembling  of 
his  voice  betrayed  his  inward  fear. 

The  majordomo  answered,  smiling,  "Do  not  be 
afraid.  Your  Excellency.  Today  is  St.  Peter's 
day.    The  mowers  are  singing." 

The  old  man  remained  listening,  leaning  on  his 
elbow  and  looking  over  the  balcony.  The  hot 
south  wind  was  fluttering  the  curtains.  The 
swallows,  in  flocks,  were  darting  back  and  forth 
as  rapidly  as  arrows  through  the  burning  air.  All 
the  roofs  of  the  houses  below  glared  with  reddish 
and  greyish  tints.    Beyond  the  roofs  was  extended 

172 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OFENA     173 

the  vast,  rich  country,  gold  In  colour,  like  ripened 
wheat. 

Again  the  old  man  asked,  **But  Giovanni, 
have  you  heard?" 

And  indeed,  clamours,  which  did  not  seem  to 
indicate  joy,  reached  their  ears.  The  wind,  ren- 
dering them  louder  at  intervals,  pushing  them  and 
intermingling  with  its  whistling  noise,  made  them 
appear  still  more  strange. 

*'Do  not  mind  that.  Your  Excellency,"  an- 
swered Mazzagrogna.    "Your  ears  deceive  you." 

"Keep  quiet."  And  he  arose  to  go  towards  one 
of  the  balconies. 

He  was  a  thick-set  man,  bow-legged,  with  enor- 
mous hands,  covered  with  hair  on  the  backs  like 
a  beast.  His  eyes  were  oblique  and  white,  like 
those  of  the  Albinos.  His  face  was  covered  with 
freckles.  A  few  red  hairs  straggled  upon  his 
temples  and  the  bald  top  of  his  head  was  flecked 
with  dark  projections  in  the  shape  of  chestnuts. 

He  remained  standing  for  a  while,  between  the 
two  curtains.  Inflated  like  sails,  in  order  to  watch 
the  plain  beneath.  Thick  clouds  of  dust,  rising 
from  the  road  of  the  Fara,  as  after  the  passing 
of  immense  flocks  of  sheep,  were  swept  by  the 
wind  and  grew  into  shapes  of  cyclones.  From 
time  to  time  these  whirling  clouds  caused  whis- 


174        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

tling  sounds,  as  if  they  encompassed  armed 
people. 

"Well?"  asked  Don  Fillppo,  uneasily. 

"Nothing,"  repeated  Mazzagrogna,  but  his 
brows  were  contracted. 

Again  the  impetuous  rush  of  wind  brought  a 
tumult  of  distant  cries. 

One  of  the  curtains,  blown  by  the  wind,  began 
to  flutter  and  wave  in  the  air  like  an  inflated  flag. 
A  door  was  suddenly  shut  with  violence  and  noise, 
the  glass  panel  trembled  from  the  shock.  The 
papers,  accumulated  upon  the  table,  were  scattered 
around  the  room. 

"Do  close  it!  Do  close  it!"  cried  the  old  man, 
with  emotional  terror. 

"Where  is  my  son?" 

He  was  lying  upon  the  bed,  suffocated  by  his 
fleshiness,  and  unable  to  rise,  as  all  the  lower  part 
of  his  body  was  deadened  by  paralysis.  A  con- 
tinuous paralytic  tremor  agitated  his  muscles. 
His  hands,  lying  on  the  bed  sheets,  were  contorted, 
like  the  roots  of  old  olive  trees.  A  copious  per- 
spiration dripped  from  his  forehead  and  from  his 
bald  head,  and  dropped  from  his  large  face, 
which  had  a  pinkish,  faded  colour,  like  the  gall  of 
oxen. 

"Heavens !"  murmured  Mazzagrogna,  between 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OFENA     175 

his  teeth,  as  he  closed  the  shutters  vehemently. 
"They  are  in  earnest!" 

One  could  now  perceive  upon  this  road  of  Fara, 
near  the  first  house,  a  multitude  of  men,  excited 
and  wavering,  like  the  overflow  of  rivulets,  which 
Indicated  a  still  greater  multitude  of  people.  In- 
visible, hidden  by  the  rows  of  roofs  and  by  the 
oak  trees  of  San  PIo.  The  auxiliary  legion  of 
the  country  had  met  the  one  of  the  rebellion. 
Little  by  little  the  crowd  would  diminish,  enter^ 
ing  the  roads  of  the  country  and  disappearing  like 
an  army  of  ants  through  the  labyrinth  of  the  ant 
hill. 

The  suffocated  cries,  echoing  from  house  to 
house,  reached  them  now,  like  a  continuous  but 
Indistinct  rumbling.  At  moments  there  was  silence 
and  then  you  could  hear  the  great  fluttering  of  the 
ash  trees  In  front  of  the  palace,  which  seemed  as 
If  already  abandoned. 

"My  son!  Where  is  he?"  again  asked  the  old 
man.  In  a  quivering,  squeaking  voice.  "Call  him! 
I  wish  to  see  him." 

He  trembled  upon  his  bed,  not  only  because  he 
was  a  paralytic,  but  also  because  of  fear. 

At  the  time  of  the  first  seditious  movement  of 
the  day  before,  at  the  cries  of  about  a  hundred 
youths,  who  had  come  under  the  balcony  to  shout 


176        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

against  the  latest  extortions  of  the  Duke  of  Ofena, 
he  had  been  overcome  by  such  a  foolish  fright, 
that  he  had  wept  like  a  little  girl,  and  had  spent 
the  night  invoking  the  Saints  of  Paradise.  The 
thought  of  death  and  of  his  danger  gave  rise  to 
an  Indescribable  terror  in  that  paralytic  old  man, 
already  half  dead,  in  whom  the  last  breaths  of 
life  were  so  painful.     He  did  not  wish  to  die. 

*'LuIgI  I    Lulgl !"  he  began  to  cry  in  his  anguish. 

All  the  place  was  filled  with  the  sharp  rattling 
of  the  window  glasses,  caused  by  the  rush  of  the 
wind.  From  time  to  time  one  could  hear  the 
banging  of  a  door,  and  the  sound  of  precipitate 
steps  and  sharp  cries. 

*'LuigiI" 

II 

The  Duke  ran  up.  He  was  somewhat  pale  and 
excited,  although  endeavouring  to  control  himself. 
He  was  tall  and  robust,  his  beard  still  black  on  his 
heavy  jaws.  Fr^m  his  mouth,  full  and  imperious, 
came  forth  explosive  outbursts ;  his  voracious  eyes 
were  troubled;  his  strong  nose,  covered  with  red 
spots,  quivered. 

*'Well,  then?"  asked  Don  FIlIppo,  breathlessly, 
with  a  rattling  sound,  as  though  suffocated. 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OFENA     177 

"Do  not  fear,  father,  I  am  here,"  answered  the 
Duke,  approaching  the  bed  and  trying  to  smile. 

Mazzagrogna  was  standing  in  front  of  one  of 
the  balconies,  looking  out  attentively.  No  cries 
reached  them  now  and  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 

The  sun,  gradually  descending  in  the  clear  sky, 
was  like  a  rosy  circle  of  flames,  enlarging  and 
glaring  over  the  hill-tops.  All  the  country  around 
seemed  to  burn  and  the  southwest  wind  resembled 
a  breath  from  the  fire.  The  first  quarter  of  the 
moon  arose  through  the  groves  of  Lisci.  Poggio, 
Revelli,  Ricciano,  Rocca  of  Forca,  were  seen 
through  the  window  panes,  revealed  by  distant 
flashes  of  lightning,  and  from  time  to  time  the 
sound  of  bells  could  be  heard.  A  few  incendiary 
fires  began  to  glow  here  and  there.  The  heat 
was  suffocating. 

"This,"  said  the  Duke  of  Ofena,  in  his  hoarse, 
harsh  voice,  "comes  from  Scioli,  but " 

He  made  a  menacing  gesture,  then  he  ap- 
proached Mazzagrogna. 

He  felt  uneasy,  because  Carletto  Grua  could 
not  yet  be  seen.  He  paced  up  and  down  the  hall 
with  a  heavy  step.  He  then  detached  from  a 
hook  two  long,  old-fashioned  pistols,  examining 
them  carefully.  The  father  followed  his  every 
movement  with  dilated  eyes,  breathing  heavily, 


178         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

like  a  calf  in  agony,  and  now  and  then  he  shook 
the  bed  cover  with  his  deformed  hands.  He 
asked  two  or  three  times  of  Mazzagrogna,  *'What 
can  you  see?" 

Suddenly  Mazzagrogna  exclaimed,  "Here 
comes  Carletto,  running  with  Gennaro." 

You  could  hear,  in  fact,  the  furious  blows  upon 
the  large  gate.  Soon  after,  Carletto  and  the  ser- 
vant entered  the  room,  pale,  frightened,  stained 
with  blood  and  covered  with  dust. 

The  Duke,  on  perceiving  Carletto,  uttered  a 
cry.  He  took  him  in  his  arms  and  began  to  feel 
him  all  over  his  body,  to  find  the  wounds. 

"What  have  they  done  to  you?  What  have 
they  done  to  you?     Tell  me?" 

The  youth  was  weeping  like  a  girl. 

"There,"  said  he,  between  his  sobs.  He  low- 
ered his  head  and  pointed  on  the  top,  to  some 
bunches  of  hair,  sticking  together  with  congealed 
blood. 

The  Duke  passed  his  fingers  softly  through  the 
hair  to  discover  the  wounds.  He  loved  Carletto 
Grua,  and  had  for  him  a  lover's  solicitude. 

"Does  It  hurt  you?"  he  asked. 

The  youth  sobbed  more  vehemently.  He  was 
slender,  like  a  girl,  with  an  effeminate  face,  hardly 
shaded  by  an  incipient  blond  beard,  his  hair  was 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OF  EN  A     179 

rather  long,  he  had  a  beautiful  mouth,  and  the 
sharp  voice  of  an  eunuch.  He  was  an  orphan, 
the  son  of  a  confectioner  of  Benevento.  He  acted 
as  valet  to  the  Duke. 

"Now  they  are  coming,'*  he  said,  his  whole 
frame  trembling,  turning  his  eyes,  filled  with  tears, 
towards  the  balcony,  from  which  came  the  clam- 
ours, louder  and  more  terrible. 

The  servant,  who  had  a  deep  wound  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  his  arm  up  to  the  elbow  all  stained 
with  blood,  was  telling  falterlngly  how  they  had 
both  been  overtaken  by  the  maddened  mob,  when 
Mazzagrogna,  who  had  remained  watching,  cried 
out,  "Here  they  are!  They  are  coming  to  the 
palace.    They  are  armed!" 

Don  Lulgi,  leaving  Carletto,  ran  to  look  out. 


ni 

In  truth,  a  multitude  of  people,  rushing  up  the 
wide  incline  with  such  united  fury,  shouting  and 
shaking  their  weapons  and  their  tools,  did  not  re- 
semble a  gathering  of  individuals,  but  rather  the 
overflow  of  a  blind  mass  of  matter,  urged  on  by 
an  Irresistible  force. 

In  a  few  moments,  the  mob  was  beneath  the 
palace,  stretching  around  it  like  an  octopus,  with 


i8o         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

many  arms,  and  enclosing  the  whole  edifice  in  a 
surging  circle. 

Some  among  the  rebels  carried  large  bunches 
of  lighted  sticks,  like  torches,  casting  over  their 
faces  a  mobile,  reddish  light  and  scattering  sparks 
and  burning  cinders,  which  caused  noisy,  crackling 
sounds.  Some,  In  a  compact  group,  were  carrying 
a  pole,  from  the  top  of  which  hung  the  corpse  of 
a  man.  They  were  threatening  death,  with  ges- 
tures and  cries.  With  hatred  they  were  shouting 
the  name,  "Cassaura!    CassauraT' 

The  Duke  of  Ofena  threw  up  his  hands  In  des- 
pair upon  recognising  on  the  top  of  the  pole  the 
mutilated  body  of  Vincenzio  Murro,  the  messen- 
ger he  had  sent  during  the  night  to  ask  for  help 
from  the  soldiers.  He  pointed  out  the  hanging 
body  to  Mazzagrogna,  who  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"It  Is  the  end  r 

Don  Filippo,  however,  heard  him,  and  began  to 
give  forth  such  a  rattling  sound  that  they  all  felt 
their  hearts  oppressed  and  their  courage  failing 
them. 

The  servants,  with  pale  faces,  ran  to  the 
threshold,  and  were  held  there  by  cowardice. 
Some  were  crying  and  invoking  their  Saints,  while 
others    were    contemplating  treachery.      "If   we 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OF  EN  A     i8i 

should  give  up  our  master  to  the  people,  they 
might,  perhaps,  spare  our  lives." 

*'To  the  balcony!  To  the  balcony  I'*  cried  the 
people,  breaking  in.     "To  the  balcony!" 

At  this  moment,,  the  Duke  spoke  aside,  in  a 
subdued  voice,  to  Mazzagrogna. 

Turning  to  Don  Filippo,  he  said,  "Place  your- 
self in  a  chair,  father;  it  will  be  better  for  you." 

A  slight  murmur  arose  among  the  servants. 
Two  of  them  came  forward  to  help  the  paralytic 
to  get  out  of  bed.  Two  others  stood  near  the 
chair,  which  ran  on  rollers.  The  work  was 
painful. 

The  corpulent  old  man  was  panting  and  la- 
menting loudly,  his  arm  clinging  to  the  neck  of 
the  servant  who  supported  him.  He  was  drip- 
ping with  perspiration,  while  the  room,  the  shut- 
ters being  closed,  was  filled  with  an  unbearable 
stench.  When  he  reached  the  chair,  his  feet  be- 
gan to  tap  on  the  floor  with  a  rhythmical  motion. 
His  loose  stomach  hung  on  his  knees,  like  a  half 
filled  leather  bag. 

Then  the  Duke  said  to  Mazzagrogna,  "Gio- 
vanni, it  is  your  turn!" 

And  the  latter,  with  a  resolute  gesture,  opened 
the  shutters  and  went  out  onto  the  balcony. 


1 82        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 


IV 

A  sonorous  shouting  greeted  him.  Five,  ten, 
twenty  bundles  of  lighted  sticks  were  simultane- 
ously thrust  beneath  the  place  where  he  was  stand- 
ing. The  glare  illuminated  the  animated  faces, 
eager  for  carnage,  the  steel  of  the  guns,  the  Iron 
axes.  The  faces  of  the  torch-bearers  were 
sprinkled  with  flour,  as  a  protection  from  the 
sparks,  and  in  the  midst  of  their  whitened  faces 
their  reddish  eyes  shone  singularly.  The  black 
smoke  arose  In  the  air,  fading  away  rapidly.  The 
flames  whistled  and,  stretching  up  on  one  side, 
were  blown  by  the  wind  like  infernal  hair.  The 
thinnest  and  dryest  reeds  bent  over  quickly,  red- 
dening, breaking  down  and  cracking  like  sky- 
rockets.   It  was  a  gay  sight. 

"Mazzagrogna  I  Mazzagrogna !  To  death 
with  the  seducer!  To  death  with  the  crooked 
man !"  they  all  cried,  crowding  together  to  throw 
insults  at  him. 

Mazzagrogna  stretched  out  his  hands,  as 
though  to  subdue  the  clamour;  he  gathered  to- 
gether all  his  vocal  force  and  began,  In  the  name 
of  the  king,  as  If  promulgating  a  law  to  Infuse 
respect  into  the  people. 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OFENA     183 

*'In  the  name  of  His  Majesty,  Ferdlnando  II, 
and  by  the  grace  of  God,  King  of  both  Sicilies,  of 
Jerusalem " 

'To  death  with  the  thief!" 

Two  or  three  shots  resounded  among  the  cries, 
and  the  speaker,  struck  on  his  chest  and  on  his 
forehead,  staggered,  throwing  his  hands  above 
his  head  and  falling  downward.  Upon  falling,  his 
head  stuck  between  two  of  the  spikes  of  the  iron 
railing  and  hung  over  the  edge  like  a  pumpkin. 
The  blood  began  to  drip  down  upon  the  soil 
beneath. 

This  spectacle  rejoiced  the  people.  The  uproar 
arose  to  the  stars.  Then  the  bearer  of  the  pole 
holding  the  hanging  corpse  came  under  the  bal- 
cony and  held  the  body  of  Vincenzio  Murro  near 
to  that  of  the  majordomo.  The  pole  was  waver- 
ing in  the  air  and  the  people,  dumbfounded, 
watched  as  the  two  bodies  jolted  together.  An 
improvised  poet,  alluding  to  the  Albino-like  eyes 
of  Mazzagrogna  and  to  the  bleared  ones  of 
the  messenger,  shouted  these  lines: 

**Lean  over  the  nvindoiv,  you  fried  eyes. 
That  you  may  look  upon  the  open  skies!" 

A  great  outburst  of  laughter  greeted  the  jest 
of  the  poet  and  the  laughter  spread  from  mouth 


1 84         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

to  mouth  like  the  sound  of  water  falling  down  a 
stony  valley. 

A  rival  poet  shouted: 

"Look,   nuhat   a   blind   man   can   see! 
If  he  closes  his  eyes  and  tries  to  flee." 

The  laughter  was  renewed. 
A  third  one  cried  out: 

"Oh,  face  of  a  dead  brute! 
Your  crazy  hair  stands  resolute!" 

Many  more  imprecations  were  cast  at  Mazza- 
grogna.  A  ferocious  joy  had  invaded  the  hearts 
of  the  people.  The  sight  and  smell  of  blood  in- 
toxicated those  nearest.  Tomaso  of  Beffi  and 
Rocco  Fuici  challenged  each  other  to  hit  with  a 
stone  the  hanging  head  of  the  dead  man,  which 
was  still  warm,  and  at  every  blow  moved  and  shed 
blood.  A  stone,  thrown  by  Rocco  Fuici,  at  last, 
hit  it  in  the  centre,  causing  a  hollow  sound.  The 
spectators  applauded,  but  they  had  had  enough  of 
Mazzagrogna. 

Again  a  cry  arose,  "Cassaura!  Cassaura!  To 
death!  To  death!" 

Fabrizio  and  Ferdinandino  Scloll,  pushing 
their  way  through  the  crowd,  were  instigating  the 
most  zealous  ones.  A  terrible  shower  of  stones, 
like  a  dense  hailstorm,  mingled  with  gun-shots, 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OF  EN  A     185 

beat  against  the  windows  of  the  palace,  the  window 
panes  falling  upon  the  assailing  hoards  and  the 
stones  rebounding.  A  few  of  the  bystanders  were 
hurt. 

When  they  were  through  with  the  stones  and 
had  used  all  their  bullets,  Ferdinandino  Scioli 
cried  out,  "Down  with  the  doors!" 

And  the  cry,  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
shook  every  hope  of  salvation  out  of  the  Duke  of 
Ofena. 


No  one  had  dared  to  close  the  balcony,  where 
Mazzagrogna  had  fallen.  His  corpse  was  lying 
in  a  contorted  position.  Then  the  rebels,  in  order 
to  be  freer,  had  left  the  pole,  holding  the  bleeding 
body  of  the  messenger,  leaning  against  the 
balcony.  Some  of  his  limbs  had  been  cut  off  with 
a  hatchet,  and  the  body  could  be  seen  through  the 
curtains  as  they  were  inflated  by  the  wind.  The 
evening  was  still.  The  stars  scintillated  endlessly. 
A  few  stubble  fields  were  burning  in  the  distance. 

Upon  hearing  the  blows  against  the  door  the 
Duke  of  Ofena  wished  to  try  another  experiment. 

Don  Filippo,  stupefied  with  terror,  kept  his  eyes 
closed  and  was  speechless.  Carletto  Grua,  his 
head  bandaged,  doubled  up  in  the  corner,  his  teeth 


1 86        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

chattering  with  fever  and  fear,  watched  with  his 
eyes  sticking  out  of  their  orbits,  every  gesture, 
every  motion  of  his  master.  The  servants  had 
found  refuge  in  the  garrets.  A  few  of  them  still 
remained  in  the  adjoining  rooms. 

Don  Luigi  gathered  them  together,  reanimated 
their  courage  and  rearmed  them  with  pistols  and 
guns,  and  then  assigned  to  each  one  his  place  under 
the  parapets  of  the  windows,  and  between  the 
shutters  of  the  balcony.  Each  one  had  to  shoot 
upon  the  rebels  with  the  greatest  possible  celerity, 
silently,  without  exposing  himself. 

"Forward!" 

The  firing  began.  Don  Luigi  was  placing  his 
hopes  in  a  panic.  He  was  untiringly  discharging 
his  long-range  pistols  with  most  marvellous 
energy.  As  the  multitude  was  dense,  no  shot  went 
astray.  The  cries  arising  after  every  discharge 
excited  the  servants  and  increased  their  ardour. 
Already  disorder  invaded  the  mutineers.  A  great 
many  were  running  away,  leaving  the  wounded 
on  the  ground. 

Then  a  cry  of  victory  arose  from  the  group  of 
the  domestics. 

**Long  live  the  Duke  of  Ofenal'*  These 
cowardly  men  were  growing  brave,  as  they  beheld 
the  backs  of  their  enemy.     They  no  longer  re- 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OFENA     187 

mained  hidden,  no  longer  shot  at  haphazard,  but, 
having  risen  to  their  feet,  were  aiming  at  the  peo- 
ple. And  every  time  they  saw  a  man  fall,  would 
cry,  "Long  live  the  Duke!" 

Within  a  short  time  the  palace  was  freed  from 
the  siege.  All  around  the  wounded  ones  lay, 
groaning.  The  residue  of  the  sticks,  which  were 
still  burning  over  the  ground  and  crackling  as  they 
died  out,  cast  upon  the  bodies  uncertain  flashes  of 
light  reflected  in  the  pools  of  blood.  The  wind 
had  grown,  striking  the  old  oaks  with  a  creeping 
sound.  The  barking  of  dogs,  answering  one  an- 
other, resounded  throughout  the  valley. 

Intoxicated  by  their  victory  and  broken  down 
with  fatigue,  the  domestics  went  downstairs  to 
partake  of  some  refreshments.  They  were  all  un- 
hurt. They  drank  freely  and  abundantly.  Some 
of  them  announced  the  names  of  those  they  had 
struck,  and  described  the  way  they  had  fallen. 
The  cook  was  boasting  of  having  killed  the  terrible 
Rocco  Furcl;  and  as  they  became  excited  by  the 
wine  the  boasting  increased. 

VI 

Now,  while  the  Duke  of  Ofena  feeling  safe,  for 
at  least  that  night,  from  any  danger,  was  attend- 


1 88         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

irig  the  whining  Carletto,  a  glare  of  light  from 
the  south  was  reflected  in  the  mirror,  and  new 
clamours  arose  through  the  gusts  of  the  south  wind 
beneath  the  palace.  At  the  same  time  four  or  ^wq 
servants  appeared,  who,  while  sleeping,  intoxi- 
cated, in  the  rooms  below,  had  been  almost  suffo- 
cated by  the  smoke.  They  had  not  yet  recovered 
their  senses,  staggering,  being  unable  to  talk,  as 
their  tongues  were  thick  with  drink.  Others  came 
running  up,  shouting: 

"Fire!     Fire!" 

They  were  trembling,  leaning  against  one  an- 
other like  a  herd  of  sheep.  Their  native  cowardice 
had  again  overtaken  them.  All  their  senses  were 
dull  as  in  a  dream.  They  did  not  know  what  they 
ought  to  do,  nor  did  the  consciousness  of  real 
danger  urge  them  to  use  a  ruse  as  a  means  of 
escape. 

Taken  very  much  by  surprise  the  Duke  was  at 
first  perplexed.  But  Carletto  Grua,  noticing  the 
smoke  coming  in,  and  hearing  that  singular  roar 
which  the  flames  make  by  feeding  themselves,  be- 
gan to  cry  so  loudly,  and  to  make  such  maddened 
gestures,  that  Don  Filippo  awoke  from  the  half 
drowsiness  into  which  he  had  fallen,  on  beholding 
death. 

Death  was  unavoidable.    The  fire,  owing  to  the 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OF  EN  A     189 

strong  wind,  was  spreading  with  stupendous  speed 
through  the  whole  edifice,  devouring  everything  in 
flames.  These  flames  ran  up  the  walls,  hugging 
the  tapestries,  hesitating  an  instant  over  the  edge 
of  the  cloth,  with  clear  and  changeable  yet  vague 
tints  penetrating  through  the  weave,  with  a  thou- 
sand thin,  vibrating  tongues,  seeming  to  animate, 
in  an  instant,  the  mural  figures,  with  a  certain 
spirit,  by  lighting  up  for  a  second  a  smile  never 
before  seen  upon  the  mouths  of  the  nymphs  and 
the  Goddess,  by  changing  in  an  instant  their  atti- 
tudes and  their  motionless  gestures. 

Passing  on,  in  their  still  increasing  flight,  they 
would  wrap  themselves  around  the  wooden  carv- 
ings, preserving  to  the  last  their  shapes,  as  though 
to  make  them  appear  to  be  manufactured  of  fiery 
substance  when  they  were  suddenly  consumed, 
turning  to  cinders,  as  if  by  magic.  The  voices  of 
the  flames  were  forming  a  vast  choir,  a  profound 
harmony,  like  the  rustling  of  millions  of  weeds. 
At  intervals,  through  the  roaring  openings,  ap- 
peared the  pure  sky  with  its  galaxy  of  stars. 

Now  the  entire  palace  was  a  prey  of  the  fire. 

"Save  me!  Save  me!"  cried  the  old  man,  at- 
tempting in  vain  to  get  up,  already  feeling  the 
floor  sinking  beneath  him,  and  almost  blinded  by 
the  implacable  reddish  glare. 


190         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

**Save  me!   Save  me!" 

With  a  supreme  effort  he  succeeded  in  rising 
and  began  to  run,  the  trunk  of  his  body  leaning 
forward,  moving  with  little  hopping  steps,  as  if 
pushed  by  an  irresistible  progressive  impulse, 
waving  his  shapeless  hands,  until  he  fell  over- 
powered— the  victim  of  the  fire — collapsing  and 
curling  up  like  an  empty  bladder. 

By  this  time  the  cries  of  the  people  increased 
and  at  intervals  arose  above  the  roar  of  the  fire. 
The  servants,  crazed  with  terror  and  pain,  jumped 
out  of  the  windows,  falling  upon  the  ground  dead, 
where  if  not  entirely  dead  they  were  instantly 
killed.    With  every  fall  a  greater  clamour  arose. 

"The  Duke!  The  Duke!"  the  unsatisfied  bar- 
barians were  crying  as  if  they  wanted  to  see  the 
little  tyrant  jump  out  with  his  cowardly  protege. 

"Here  he  comes!    Here  he  comes!    Is  it  he?" 

"Down!    down!   We  want  you!" 

"Die,  you  dog  I     Die !    Die !    Die !" 

In  the  large  doorway,  in  the  presence  of  the 
people,  Don  Luigi  appeared  carrying  on  his  shoul- 
ders the  motionless  body  of  Carletto  Grua.  His 
whole  face  was  burned  and  almost  unrecognisable. 
He  no  longer  had  any  hair  nor  beard  left.  He 
was  walking  boldly  through  the  fire,  endeavouring 
to  keep  his  courage  in  spite  of  that  atrocious  pain. 


DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  OF  EN  A     191 

At  first  the  crowd  was  dumb.  Then  again  broke 
forth  in  shouts  and  gestures,  waiting  ferociously 
for  this  great  victim  to  expire  before  them. 

"Here,  here,  you  dog!  We  want  to  see  you 
die!" 

Don  Luigi  heard  through  the  flames  these  last 
insults.  He  gathered  together  all  of  his  will- 
power and  stood  for  an  instant  in  an  attitude  of  in- 
describable scorn.  Then  turning  abruptly  he  disap- 
peared forever  where  the  fire  was  raging  fiercest. 


XI 
THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE 

Fragments  of  the  Pescarese  Chronicle 

TOWARDS  the  middle  of  August — when  in 
the  fields  the  wheat  was  bleaching  dry  in  the 
sun — Antonio  Mengarino,  an  old  peasant  full  of 
probity  and  wisdom,  standing  before  the  Board 
of  the  Council  when  they  were  discussing  public 
matters,  heard  some  of  the  councillors,  citizens  of 
the  place,  discoursing  in  low  tones  about  the 
cholera,  which  was  spreading  through  the 
province;  and  he  listened  with  close  attention  to 
the  proposals  for  preserving  the  health  and  for 
eliminating  the  fears  of  the  people  and  he  leaned 
forward  curiously  and  incredulously  as  he  listened. 
With  him  in  the  Council  were  two  other 
peasants,  Glulio  CItrullo  of  the  Plain,  and  AchlUe 
di  Russo  of  the  Hills,  to  whom  the  old  man  would 
turn  from  time  to  time,  winking  and  grimacing 
insinuatingly,  to  warn  them,  of  the  deception  which 

192 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  193 

he  believed  was  concealed  In  the  words  of  the 
Councillors  and  the  Mayor. 

At  last,  unable  to  restrain  himself  longer,  he 
spoke  out  with  the  assurance  of  a  man  who  knows 
and  sees. 

*'Stop  your  idle  talk!  What  if  there  Is  a  little 
cholera  among  us.  Let  us  keep  the  secret  to  our- 
selves.** 

At  this  unexpected  outburst,  the  Councillors 
were  taken  by  surprise,  then  burst  into  laughter. 

"Go  on,  Mengarino !  What  foolishness  are 
you  talking!"  exclaimed  Don  Alace,  the  Assessor, 
slapping  the  old  man  on  the  shoulder,  while  the 
rest,  with  much  shaking  of  heads  and  beating  of 
fists  upon  the  table,  talked  of  the  pertinacious 
ignorance  of  the  country  people. 

"Well,  well,  but  do  you  think  we  are  deceived 
by  your  talk?"  asked  Antonio  Mengarino,  with  a 
quick  gesture,  hurt  by  the  laughter  which  his  words 
had  created,  and  in  the  hearts  of  the  three 
peasants  their  Instinctive  hostility  toward  and 
hatred  of  the  upper  classes  were  revived.  Then 
they  were  excluded  from  the  secrets  of  the  Coun- 
cil ?  Then  they  were  still  considered  Ignoramuses  ? 
Oh,  those  were  two  galling  thoughts ! 

"Do  as  you  please.     We  are  going,"  said  the 


194         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

old  man  bitterly,  putting  on  his  hat  and  the  three 
peasants  left  the  hall  In  silent  dignity. 

When  they  were  outside  the  town,  in  the  upland 
country  filled  with  vineyards  and  cornfields,  Glulio 
CItrullo  stopped  to  light  his  pipe,  and  said  de- 
cisively: 

"We  will  not  mind  them!  We  can  be  on  our 
guard,  and  know  that  we  shall  have  to  take  pre- 
cautions.   I  would  not  like  to  be  In  their  places !" 

Meanwhile,  throughout  the  farming  country, 
the  fear  of  the  disease  had  taken  possession  of  all. 
Over  the  fruit  trees,  the  vineyards,  the  cisterns, 
and  the  wells,  the  farmers,  suspicious  and  threat- 
ening, kept  close  and  Indefatigable  watch. 
Through  the  night  frequent  shots  broke  the  silence, 
and  even  the  dogs  barked  till  dawn.  Imprecations 
against  the  Government  burst  forth  with  greater 
violence  from  day  to  day.  All  the  peaceful  labours 
of  the  farm-hands  were  undertaken  with  a  sort 
of  carelessness;  from  the  fields  expressions  of  re- 
bellion rose  In  songs  and  rhymes,  improvised  by 
the  hands. 

Then,  the  old  men  recalled  Instances  In  the  past 
which  confirmed  the  suspicions  about  poisoning. 
In  the  year  '54,  some  vintagers  had  one  day 
caught  a  man  hidden  In  the  top  of  a  fig-tree,  and 
when  they  forced  him  to  descend,  they  noticed  In 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  195 

his  hand  a  vial,  which  he  had  attempted  to  con- 
ceal. With  dire  threats  they  compelled  him  to 
swallow  the  yellowish  ointment  which  it  contained, 
whereupon  shortly  he  fell  writhing  in  agony  with 
greenish  foam  Issuing  from  his  mouth  and  died 
within  a  few  minutes.  In  Spoltore,  in  the  year  '57, 
ZInicche,  a  blacksmith,  killed  the  Chancellor,  Don 
Antonio  Rapino,  in  the  square,  after  which  the 
mysterious  deaths  ceased,  and  the  country  was 
saved. 

Then  stories  began  to  be  circulated  of  recent 
mysterious  happenings.  One  woman  said  that 
seven  cases  of  poison  had  come  to  the  City  Hall, 
sent  by  the  Government  to  be  distributed  through 
the  country  by  mixing  It  with  the  salt.  The  cases 
were  green,  fastened  with  iron  bands  and  three 
locks.  The  Mayor  had  been  obliged  to  pay  seven 
thousand  ducats  to  bury  the  cases  and  save  the 
country.  Another  story  went  about  that  the  Gov- 
ernment paid  the  Mayor  five  ducats  for  every 
dead  person  because  the  population  was  too  large, 
and  it  was  the  poor  who  must  die.  The  Mayor 
was  now  making  out  a  list  of  those  selected.  Ha ! 
He  would  get  rich,  this  great  signore!  And  so 
the  excitement  grew.  The  peasants  would  not 
buy  anything  In  the  market  of  Pescara;  the  figs 
were  left  to  rot  on  the  trees ;  the  grapes  were  left 


196         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

among  the  vine-leaves ;  even  the  nightly  depreda- 
tions in  the  orchards  and  vineyards  did  not  occur, 
for  the  robbers  feared  to  eat  poisoned  fruit. 
The  salt,  which  was  the  only  provision  obtained 
from  the  city  stores,  was  given  to  dogs  and  cats 
before  being  used,  to  make  sure  that  it  was  harm- 
less. 

One  day  the  news  came  that  in  Naples  the 
people  were  dying  in  large  numbers  and  hearing 
the  name  of  Naples,  of  that  great,  far-distant 
kingdom  where  "Gianni  Without  Fear"  made  his 
fortune,  the  Imaginations  of  the  people  were  in- 
flamed. The  vintage  time  came,  but  the  mer- 
chants of  Lombardy  bought  the  home  grapes,  and 
took  them  to  the  north  to  make  artificial  wines. 
The  luxury  of  new  wine  was  scarce ;  the  vintagers 
who  trampled  out  the  juice  of  the  grapes  in  the 
vats  to  the  songs  of  maidens,  had  little  to  do. 

But  when  the  work  of  the  vineyards  was  ended, 
and  the  fruit  of  the  trees  was  gone,  the  fears  and 
suspicions  of  the  people  grew  less,  for  now  there 
was  little  chance  for  the  Government  to  scatter 
the  poison.  Heavy,  beneficent  rains  fell  upon  the 
country,  drenching  the  soil  and  preparing  It  for 
the  ploughing  and  the  sowing,  and  together  with 
the  favour  of  the  soft  autumnal  sun  and  the  moon 
in  Its  first  quarter,  had  Its  beneficent  Influence  upon 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  197 

seeds.  One  morning  through  all  the  country  the 
report  was  spread  that  at  Villareale,  near  the  oak 
groves  of  Don  Settlmio,  over  the  shore  of  the 
river,  three  women  had  died  after  having  eaten 
soup  made  from  dough  bought  In  the  city. 
The  Indignation  of  every  person  in  the  country 
was  aroused,  and  with  greater  vehemence  after 
the  quiet  of  the  transient  security. 

'*Aha!  That  Is  well!  The 'great  SIgnore' does 
not  wish  to  renounce  the  ducats!  .  .  .  But  they 
cannot  harm  us  now,  for  there  is  no  more  fruit  to 
eat,  and  we  do  not  go  to  Pescara.  The  'great 
SIgnore'  is  playing  his  cards  very  badly.  He 
wishes  to  see  us  die!  But  he  has  mistaken  the 
time,  poor  SIgnore ! 

"Where  can  he  put  the  poison?  In  the  dough? 
In  the  salt?  .  .  .But  we  shall  not  eat  any  more 
dough,  and  we  have  our  salt  first  tried  by  the  dogs 
and  cats.  Ha,  rascally  SIgnore?  What  have  you 
done?    Your  day  will  come,  too  ..." 

Thus,  everywhere  the  grumbling  rose,  mixed 
with  mocking  and  contumely  against  the  men  of 
the  Commune  and  the  Government. 

In  Pescara,  one  after  another,  three,  four,  five 
persons  were  taken  with  the  disease.  Evening 
was  approaching,  and  over  the  houses  hung  a 
funereal  dread,  which  seemed  to  be  mingled  with 


198        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

the  dampness  arising  from  the  river.  Through 
the  streets  the  people  ran  frantically  towards  the 
City  Hall,  where  the  Mayor,  the  Councillors,  and 
the  gendarmes,  overwhelmed  with  the  miserable 
confusion,  ran  up  and  down  the  stairs,  all  talk- 
ing loudly,  giving  contrary  orders,  not  knowing 
what  action  to  take,  where  to  go,  nor  what  to  do. 

The  strange  occurrence  and  the  excitement 
which  followed  it,  caused  many  of  the  people  to 
grow  slightly  ill.  Feeling  a  strange  sensation  in 
their  stomachs,  they  would  begin  to  tremble,  and 
with  chattering  teeth  would  look  into  one  an- 
other's faces;  then,  with  rapid  strides,  would 
hasten  to  lock  themselves  in  their  homes,  leaving 
their  evening  meals  untouched. 

Then,  late  in  the  night,  when  the  first  tumult  of 
the  panic  had  subsided,  the  police  lighted  fires  of 
sulphur  and  tar  at  the  corners  of  the  streets.  The 
red  flames  lighted  up  the  walls  and  the  windows, 
and  the  unpleasant  odour  of  manure  pervaded  the 
air  of  the  frightened  city,  and  in  the  light  of  the 
distant  moon,  it  looked  as  though  the  tar  men 
were  merrily  smearing  the  keels  of  vessels.  Thus 
did  the  Asiatic  Plague  make  an  entrance  into 
Pescara. 

The  disease,  creeping  along  the  river,  spread 
through    the    little    seashore    hamlets, — through 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  199 

those  groups  of  small,  low  houses  where  the  sailors 
live,  and  where  old  men  are  engaged  in  small  in- 
dustries. 

Most  of  those  seized  with  the  disease  died,  be- 
cause no  amount  of  reasoning  and  assurance,  or 
experiments,  could  persuade  them  to  take  the 
medicine.  Anisafine,  the  hunchback  who  sold 
water  mixed  with  spirit  of  anise  to  the  soldiers, 
when  he  saw  the  glass  of  the  physician,  closed  his 
lips  tightly  and  shook  his  head  in  refusal  of  the 
potion.  The  doctor  tried  to  coax  him  with 
persuasive  words  and  first  drank  half  the  liquid, 
then  the  assistants  each  took  a  sip.  Anisafine  con- 
tinued to  shake  his  head. 

*'But  don't  you  see,"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  *'we 
have  been  drinking?    But  you  ..." 

Anisafine  began  to  laugh  sceptically,  ''Ha !  ha  I 
ha!  You  took  the  counter-poison,"  he  said,  and 
soon  after  he  was  dead. 

Cianchine,  simple-minded  butcher,  did  the  same 
thing.  The  doctor,  as  a  last  resort,  poured  the 
medicine  between  the  man's  teeth.  Cianchine  spit 
it  out  wrathfully,  overwhelmed  with  horror.  Then 
he  began  to  abuse  those  present,  and  died  raging, 
held  by  two  amazed  gendarmes. 

The  public  kitchens,  instituted  by  charitably- 
disposed  people,   were    at  first  thought  by  the 


200        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

peasants  to  be  laboratories  for  the  mixing  of 
poisons.  The  beggars  would  starve  rather  than 
eat  meat  cooked  in  those  boilers.  Costantino  di 
Corropoli,  the  cynic,  went  about  scattering  his 
doubts  through  his  circle.  He  would  wander 
around  the  kitchens,  saying  aloud  with  an  Indescrib- 
able gesture,  "You  can't  entrap  me!" 

The  woman  Catalana  di  GIssi  was  the  first  to 
conquer  her  fears.  Hesitating  a  little,  she  entered 
and  ate  a  small  mouthful,  waiting  to  notice  the 
effect  of  the  food  and  then  took  a  few  sips  of  wine, 
whereupon,  feeling  restored  and  fortified,  she 
smiled  with  astonishment  and  pleasure.  All  the 
beggars  were  waiting  for  her  to  come  out  and 
when  they  saw  her  unharmed,  they  rushed  in  to 
eat  and  drink. 

The  kitchens  are  Inside  an  old  open  theatre  In 
the  neighbourhood  of  Portanova.  The  kettles  In 
which  the  food  Is  prepared  are  placed  where  the 
orchestra  used  to  sit.  The  steam  from  them  rises 
and  fills  the  old  stage ;  through  the  smoke  you  see 
the  scenery  behind  on  the  stage,  representing  a 
feudal  castle  in  the  light  of  the  full  moon.  Here 
at  noon-time  gathers  around  a  rustic  table  the  tribe 
of  the  beggars.  Before  the  hour  strikes,  there  Is 
a  swarming  of  multi-coloured  rags  in  the  pit,  and 
there  arises  the  grumbling  of  hoarse  voices.  Some 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  201 

new  figures  appear  among  the  well-known  ones; 
noteworthy  among  whom  is  a  certain  woman  called 
Liberata  Lotta  di  Montenerodomo,  stupendous  as 
the  mythological  Minerva,  with  a  regular  and 
austere  brow  and  with  her  hair  strained  tightly 
over  her  head  and  adhering  to  it  like  a  helmet. 
She  holds  in  her  hands  a  grass-green  vase,  and 
stands  aside,  taciturn,  waiting  to  be  asked  to  par- 
take. 

However,  the  great  epic  account  of  this  chron- 
icle of  the  cholera  is  the  War  of  the  Bridge. 

An  old  feud  exists  between  Pescara  and  Castel- 
lammare  Adriatico,  which  districts  lie  on  either 
side  of  the  river. 

The  opposing  factions  were  assiduously  en- 
gaged in  pillage  and  reprisals,  the  one  doing  all 
that  lay  in  its  power  to  hinder  the  prosperity  of 
the  other,  and  as  the  important  factor  in  the  pros- 
perity of  a  country  is  its  commerce,  and  as  Pescara 
possessed  many  industries  and  great  wealth,  the 
people  of  Castellammare  had  long  sought  with 
much  astuteness  and  all  manner  of  allurements  to 
draw  the  merchants  away  from  the  rival  town. 

An  old  wooden  bridge,  built  on  big  tarred  boats 
chained  together  and  fastened  to  the  piers,  spans 
the  river.  The  cables  and  the  ropes,  which  stretch 
from  almost  the  height  of  the  piers  to  the  low 


202        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

parapets,  cross  each  other  in  the  air,  looking  like 
some  barbaric  Instrument.  The  uneven  boards 
creak  under  the  weight  of  the  wagons,  and  when 
the  ranks  of  the  soldiers  pass  over,  the  whole  of 
the  great  structure  shakes  and  vibrates  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  resounding  like  a  drum.  It  was 
from  this  bridge  that  the  popular  legends  of  Saint 
Cetteo,  the  Liberator,  originated,  and  the  saint 
yearly  stops  In  the  centre  with  great  Catholic  pomp 
to  receive  the  salutes  which  the  sailors  send  him 
from  the  anchored  boats. 

Thus,  between  the  panorama  of  Montecorno 
and  the  sea,  the  humble  structure  looms  up  like 
a  monument  of  the  country,  and  possessing  the 
sacredness  of  all  monuments,  gives  to  strangers 
the  Impression  of  a  people  who  live  in  primeval 
simplicity.  As  the  hatred  between  the  Pescarese 
and  the  Castellammarese  meets  on  this  bridge,  the 
boards  of  which  are  worn  under  the  daily  heavy 
traffic,  and  as  the  trade  of  the  city  spreads  to  the 
province  of  Teramo,  with  what  joy  would  the  op- 
posing faction  cut  the  cables  and  push  out  to  sea 
to  be  wrecked  the  seven  supporting  boats. 

A  good  opportunity  having  presented  itself,  the 
leader  of  the  enemy,  with  a  great  display  of  his 
rural  forces,  prevented  the  Pescarese  from  pass- 
ing over  the  wide  road  which  stretches  out  from 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  203 

the  bridge  far  across  the  country,  uniting  number- 
less villages.  It  was  his  Intention  to  blockade  the 
rival  city  by  a  siege,  In  order  to  shut  away  from 
It  all  Internal  and  external  traffic  In  order  to  draw 
to  the  market  of  his  own  city  the  sailors  and  buy- 
ers who  were  accustomed  to  trade  on  the  right 
shore  of  the  river,  and  having  thus  stagnated  the 
business  of  Pescara,  and  having  cut  off  from  the 
town  all  source  of  revenue,  to  rise  up  In  triumph. 
He  offered  to  the  owners  of  the  Pescarese  boats 
twenty  francs  for  every  hundred  pounds  of  fish, 
on  condition  that  all  boats  should  land  and  load 
their  cargoes  on  his  shore,  and  with  the  stipulation 
that  the  price  should  last  up  to  the  day  of  the 
Nativity  of  Christ.  But  as  the  price  of  fish  usually 
rose  shortly  before  the  Nativity  to  fifteen  ducats 
for  every  hundred  pounds,  the  profit  to  himself 
was  evident,  and  the  cunning  of  his  scheme  was 
clearly  revealed.  The  owners  refused  such  an  of- 
fer, preferring  to  allow  their  nets  to  remain  idle. 
Then  the  wily  fellow  spread  the  report  of  a 
great  mortality  in  Pescara.  Professing  friendship 
for  the  province  of  Teramo  he  succeeded  in  rous- 
ing both  that  province  and  Chleti  against  the 
peaceful  city,  from  which  the  plague  had  really  dis- 
appeared entirely.  He  waylaid  and  kept  prisoners 
some  honest  passers-by  who  were  exercising  their 


204         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

legitimate  right  to  pass  along  this  road  on  their 
way  to  a  more  distant  part  of  the  country.  He 
stationed  a  group  of  loafers  on  the  border  line 
who  kept  watch  from  dawn  to  sunset,  shouting  out 
warnings  to  anyone  who  approached.  All  this 
caused  violent  rebellion  on  the  part  of  the 
Pescarese  against  such  unjust  and  arbitrary  meas- 
ures. The  great  class  of  rough,  ugly  labourers 
were  lounging  about  in  idleness,  and  merchants 
sustained  severe  losses  from  the  enforced  dulness 
of  trade.  The  cholera  had  left  the  city  and  seemed 
to  have  disappeared  also  from  the  seashore  towns, 
where  only  a  few  decrepit  old  men  had  died.  All 
the  citizens,  rugged  and  full  of  health  and  spirits, 
would  have  rejoiced  to  take  up  their  customary 
labours. 

Then  the  tribunes  rose  to  action:  Francesco 
Pomarice,  Antonio  Sorrentino,  Pletro  D'Amico; 
and  in  the  streets  the  people,  divided  Into  groups, 
listened  to  their  words,  applauding,  proposing, 
and  uttering  cries.  A  great  tumult  was  brewing. 
As  an  Illustration,  some  recounted  the  heart-rend- 
ing tale  of  Moretto  di  Claudia,  who  had  been 
taken  by  force,  by  men  paid  to  do  the  deed,  and 
being  imprisoned  in  the  Lazzaretto,  was  kept  for 
five  consecutive  days  without  other  food  than 
bread,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  succeeded  In 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  205 

escaping  from  a  window,  swam  across  the  river, 
and  came  to  his  people  dripping  with  water,  out 
of  breath,  and  overcome  with  exultation  and  joy 
at  his  escape. 

The  Mayor,  seeing  the  storm  gathering,  en- 
deavoured to  arbitrate  with  the  Great  Enemy  of 
Castellammare.  The  Mayor  is  a  little  fellow,  a 
knighted  Doctor  of  Law,  carefully  dressed,  curly 
haired,  his  shoulders  covered  with  dandruff,  his 
small  roving  eyes  accustomed  to  pleasant  simula- 
tion. The  Great  Enemy  Is  a  degenerate,  a  nephew 
of  the  good  Gargantuasso,  a  big  fellow,  puffing, 
exploding,  devouring.  The  meeting  of  the  two 
took  place  on  neutral  ground,  with  the  Prefects  of 
Teramo  and  of  Chletl  as  witnesses. 

But  towards  sunset  one  of  the  guards  went  into 
Pescara  to  bring  a  message  to  one  of  the  coun- 
cillors of  the  Commune ;  he  went  In  with  another  of 
the  loafers  to  drink,  after  which  he  strolled  about 
the  streets.  When  the  tribunes  saw  him,  they  Im- 
mediately gave  chase.  With  cries  and  shouts,  he 
was  driven  towards  the  banks  of  the  river  as  far 
as  Lazzaretto.  The  water  glared  in  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun,  and  the  belligerent  reddening  of 
the  air  intoxicated  the  people. 

Then  from  the  willow  trees  on  the  opposite 
shore  a  crowd  of  Castellammarese  poured  out, 


2o6         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

with  vehement  gestures  and  angry  protests  against 
the  outrage.  With  a  fury  equalling  their  own,  the 
Pescarese  answered  their  gibes.  The  guard,  who 
had  been  imprisoned,  was  pounding  the  door  of  his 
prison  with  fists  and  feet,  crying  out: 

"Open  to  me !    Open  to  me !" 

*'You  go  to  sleep  in  there  and  don't  worry  I" 
the  men  called  to  him  scornfully,  while  someone 
cruelly  added: 

"Ah,  if  you  knew  how  many  have  been  killed 
down  there !  Don't  you  smell  the  blood?  Doesn't 
it  make  you  sick?" 

"Hurrah!     Hurrah!" 

Towards  Bandiera  the  gleam  of  gun-barrels 
could  be  seen.  The  little  Mayor,  at  the  head  of 
a  band  of  soldiers,  was  coming  to  liberate  the 
guard  that  the  wrath  of  the  Great  Enemy  might 
not  be  incurred. 

Suddenly  the  irritated  rabble  broke  out  in  an 
angry  uproar.  Loud  cries  rose  against  the 
cowardly  liberator  of  the  Castellammarese.  From 
Lazzaretto  to  the  city  sounded  the  clamour  of 
hisses  and  contumely.  To  the  delight  of  the  people 
the  shouting  lasted  until  their  voices  grew  hoarse. 
After  the  first  outburst  the  revolt  began  to  turn 
in  other  directions.  The  shops  were  all  closed, 
the  citizens  gathered  In  the  street,  rich  and  poor 


THE  PFAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  207 

mingling  together  familiarly,  all  possessed  of  the 
same  wild  desire  to  speak,  to  shout,  to  gesticulate, 
to  express  in  a  thousand  different  ways  the  feel- 
ings which  burned  within  them. 

Every  few  minutes  another  tribune  would  ar- 
rive with  fresh  news.  Groups  dissolved  to  form 
new  groups,  varying  according  to  differences  of 
opinion. 

Th*  free  spirit  of  the  day  affected  everyone; 
every  breath  of  air  seemed  to  intoxicate  like  a 
draught  of  wine,  the  hilarity  of  the  Pescarese  re- 
vived, and  they  continued  their  rebellion  ironically 
for  pure  enjoyment,  for  spite,  and  for  the  love  of 
novelty.  The  stratagems  of  the  Great  Enemy 
were  increased.  Any  agreement  was  broken  to 
further  the  skilful  schemes  which  were  suggested, 
and  the  weakness  of  the  little  Mayor  favoured 
this  method  of  procedure. 

On  the  morning  of  All  Souls'  Day  at  about 
seven  o'clock,  when  the  first  ceremonies  were  be- 
ing performed  in  the  churches,  the  tribunes  started 
to  make  a  tour  of  the  city,  followed  by  a  crowd 
which  grew  larger  at  every  step,  and  became  more 
and  more  clamorous.  When  all  the  people  had 
gathered,  Antonio  Sorrentino  addressed  them  in 
a  stirring  harangue.  Then  the  procession  pro- 
ceeded in  an  orderly  way  towards  th^.  City  Hall. 


2o8         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

The  streets  in  the  shadows  were  still  bluish  from 
smoke;  the  houses  were  bathed  In  sunlight. 

At  the  sight  of  the  City  Hall  an  immense  cry 
broke  out.  From  every  mouth  vituperations  were 
hurled;  every  fist  rose  threateningly.  The  shouts 
vibrated  at  intervals  as  though  produced  by  an 
instrument,  and  above  the  confused  mass  of  heads 
the  vermilion  flags  waved  as  if  agitated  by  a 
heavy  popular  breath.  No  one  appeared  upon  the 
balcony  of  the  City  Hall.  The  sun  was  gradually 
descending  from  the  roof  to  the  meridian  sand, 
black  with  figures  and  lines,  upon  which  vibrated 
the  indicating  shadow.  From  the  Torretta  of  the 
D'Annunzio  to  the  bell-tower  of  the  Abbey,  flocks 
of  doves  were  flying  against  the  azure  sky. 

The  shouts  increased.  A  number  of  the  more 
zealous  ones  took  by  assault  the  stairs  of  the  build- 
ing. The  little  Mayor,  pallid  and  timid,  yielded 
to  the  wish  of  the  people.  He  left  his  seat  In  the 
City  Hall,  resigned  his  office,  and  passed  down 
the  street  between  two  gendarmes,  followed  by 
the  whole  Board  of  Councillors.  He  then  left  the 
city  and  withdrew  to  the  hall  of  Spoltore. 

The  doors  of  the  City  Hall  were  closed  and  for 
a  time  Anarchy  ruled  the  city.  In  order  to  pre- 
vent an  open  battle,  which  seemed  imminent,  be- 
tween the  Castellammarese  and  the  Pescarese,  the 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  209 

soldiers  stationed  themselves  at  the  extreme  left 
end  of  the  bridge.  Having  torn  down  the  flags, 
the  crowd  set  out  for  the  road  to  Chleti,  where  the 
Prefect,  who  had  been  summoned  by  a  Royal  Com- 
missary, was  expected.  All  their  plans  seemed  to 
be  ferocious.  However,  in  the  soft  warmth  of  the 
sunlight,  their  ire  was  soon  decreased. 

Through  the  wide  street  poured  forth  from  the 
church  the  women  of  the  place,  dressed  in  various 
coloured  gowns,  and  covered  with  jewelry  con- 
sisting mostly  of  silver  filigree  and  gold  necklaces. 
The  appearance  of  these  happy  and  joyful  faces 
quieted  and  soothed  the  turbulent  spirits  of  the 
mob.  Jests  and  laughter  broke  forth  spontaneous- 
ly, and  the  short  period  of  waiting  was  almost  gay. 
Towards  noon  the  carriage  of  the  Prefect  came  in 
sight.  The  people  formed  themselves  in  a  semi- 
circle to  stop  Its  passage.  Antonio  Sorrentino 
again  gave  a  harangue,  not  without  a  certain 
flowery  eloquence.  The  crowd,  in  the  pauses  of 
the  speech,  asked  In  various  ways  for  justice  and 
relief  from  the  abuses,  and  that  no  measure  should 
be  taken  which  would  Involve  killing. 

The  two  large  skeletons  of  horses,  still  ani- 
mated, however,  shook  their  bells  from  time  to 
time,  showing  the  rebels  their  white  gums  as  If  in 
a  grimace  of  derision.    A  delegate  of  the  police, 


2IO         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

looking  like  an  old  singer  of  some  comic  opera, 
who  still  wore  around  his  face  a  druid  beard, 
from  the  height  of  the  back  seat  was  emphasising 
the  words  of  the  tribune^s  speech  with  grave  ges- 
tures of  his  hand.  As  the  speaker  in  his  enthusiasm 
went  on  with  impetuous  eloquence,  he  became  too 
audacious,  and  the  Prefect,  rising  from  his  seat, 
took  advantage  of  the  moment  to  interrupt.  He 
ventured  several  irrelevant  and  timid  remarks, 
which  were  drowned  by  the  cries  of  the  people. 

"To  Pescaral     To  Pescara!" 

The  carriage,  pushed  along  by  the  press  of  the 
crowd,  entered  the  city  and  the  City  Hall  being 
closed,  it  stopped  before  the  Delegation.  Ten 
men,  named  by  the  people,  together  with  the  Pre- 
fect, formed  a  temporary  parliament.  The  crowd 
filled  the  street  and  every  now  and  then  an  im- 
patient murmur  arose. 

The  houses,  heated  by  the  sun,  radiated  a  de- 
lightful warmth,  and  an  indescribable  mildness 
emanated  from  the  sky  and  sea,  from  the  floating 
vegetation  alongside  the  water-troughs,  from  the 
roses,  from  the  windows,  from  the  white  walls  of 
the  houses,  from  the  very  air  of  the  place  itself. 
This  place  is  renowned  as  the  home  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  of  Pescara,  from  generation  to 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  211 

generation  its  fame  for  its  beauties  has  been  per- 
petuated. 

The  home  of  Don  Ussorio  is  the  abode  of 
flourishing  children  and  pretty  girls;  the  house  is 
all  covered  with  little  loggias,  which  are  over- 
flowing with  carnations  growing  in  rough  vases 
ornamented  with  bas-reliefs. 

Gradually  the  impatient  crowd  grew  quiet. 
From  one  end  of  the  street  to  the  other  the  speak- 
ers were  subsiding.  Domenico  di  Matteo,  a  sort 
of  rustic  Rodomonte,  was  making  loud  jests  upon 
the  asininity  and  avidity  of  the  doctors  who  cause 
their  patients  to  die  in  order  to  get  a  larger  fee 
from  the  Commune.  He  was  telling  of  some 
marvellous  cures  he  had  effected  on  himself.  Once 
he  had  a  terrible  pain  on  his  chest,  and  was  about 
to  die.  The  physician  had  forbidden  him  to  drink 
water,  and  he  was  burning  with  thirst.  One  night, 
when  everyone  was  asleep  he  got  up  quietly,  felt 
about  for  a  water  tank,  and  having  found  it,  stuck 
his  head  in  it  and  drank  like  a  pack  horse  until  the 
tank  was  empty.  Next  morning  he  had  entirely  re- 
covered. Another  time,  he  and  a  companion,  hav- 
ing been  ill  for  a  long  time  with  intermittent  fever, 
and  having  taken  large  quantities  of  quinine  with- 
out avail,  decided  to  make  an  experiment.  Across 
the  river  from  them  was  a  vineyard  filled  with 


212        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

grapes,  hanging  ripe  and  delicious  in  the  sun.  Go- 
ing to  the  shore,  they  undressed  themselves, 
plunged  into  the  water,  and  swam  through  the  cur- 
rent to  the  other  shore,  and  after  having  eaten  as 
many  grapes  as  they  could,  swam  back  again.  The 
intermittent  fever  disappeared.  Another  time  he 
was  ill  with  blood  poisoning,  and  spent  more  than 
fifteen  ducats  for  doctors  and  medicine  in  vain. 
As  he  watched  his  mother  doing  the  washing,  a 
happy  thought  struck  him.  One  after  another  he 
swallowed  five  glasses  of  lime-water,  and  was 
cured. 

From  the  balconies,  from  the  windows,  from 
the  loggias,  a  number  of  beautiful  women  leaned 
out,  one  after  another.  The  men  in  the  street 
raised  their  eyes  towards  these  fair  apparitions, 
walking  along  with  heads  bent  backward.  As  the 
dinner  hour  was  passed,  they  felt  a  certain  dizzi- 
ness in  their  heads  and  their  stomachs,  and  an 
awakening  faintness.  Brief  talks  between  street 
and  windows  took  place,  the  young  men  making 
gestures  and  little  speeches  to  the  belles,  the  belles 
answering  with  motions  of  their  hands  or  shakes 
of  their  heads,  or  sometimes  by  laughing  aloud. 
Their  fresh  laughter  poured  out  on  the  men  below 
like  strings  of  crystals,  increasing  their  admira- 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  BRIDGE  213 

tion.  The  heat  given  out  by  the  walls  of  the 
houses  mingled  with  the  heat  of  the  bodies  of  the 
crowd.  The  whitish  reflection  dazzled  the  eyes; 
something  enervating  and  stupefying  seemed  to 
descend  upon  the  restless  mob.  Suddenly  upon  the 
loggia  appeared  the  woman  Ciccarina,  the  belle  of 
the  belles,  the  rose  of  the  roses,  the  adorable  ob- 
ject whom  all  desired.  With  a  common  impulse, 
every  look  was  turned  towards  her.  She  acknowl- 
edged this  homage  with  triumphant  smiles,  laugh- 
ing, radiant,  like  a  Venetian  Dogess  before  her 
people.  The  sunlight  fell  on  her  full  flushed  face, 
reminding  one  of  the  pulp  of  a  succulent  fruit. 
Her  loose  hair,  so  bright  that  it  seemed  to  dart 
golden  flames,  encircled  her  forehead,  temples  and 
neck.  The  fascination  of  a  Venus  emanated  from 
her  whole  person.  She  simply  stood  there,  be- 
tween two  cages  of  black  birds,  smiling  in  great 
unconcern,  not  at  all  troubled  by  the  longing  and 
admiration  shown  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  men  watch- 
ing her. 

The  black  birds,  singing  a  sort  of  rustic  madrigal, 
fluttered  their  wings  towards  her.  Ciccarina,  smil- 
ing, withdrew  from  the  loggia.  The  crowd  re- 
mained in  the  street,  dazzled  by  the  vision,  and  a 
little  dizzy  from  hunger.    Then  one  of  the  speak- 


214         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOIVN 

ers,  leaning  out  from  the  window  of  the  Delega- 
tion, announced  in  a  shrill  voice: 

^'Citizens!     The  matter  will  be  settled  within 
three  hours  I" 


XII 

THE  VIRGIN  ANNA 


LUCA  MINELLA,  born  in  the  year  1789  at 
Ortona  in  one  of  the  houses  of  Porta  Caldara, 
was  a  seaman.  In  early  youth  he  sailed  for  some 
time  on  the  brigantine  Santa  Liberata,  from  the 
bay  of  Ortona  to  the  ports  of  Dalmatia,  loaded 
with  varieties  of  wood,  fresh  and  dried  fruit. 
Later,  because  of  a  whim  to  change  masters,  he 
entered  the  service  of  Don  Rocco  Panzavacante, 
and  upon  a  new  skiff  made  many  voyages  for  the 
purpose  of  trading  in  lemons,  to  the  promontory 
of  Roto,  which  is  a  large  and  agreeable  elevation 
on  the  Italian  coast,  wholly  covered  with  orchards 
of  oranges  and  lemons. 

In  his  twenty-seventh  year  he  kindled  with  love 
for  Francesca  Nobile,  and  after  several  months 
they  were  married.  Luca,  a  man  of  short  and  very 
strong  build,  had  a  soft  blond  beard  upon  his 
flushed  visage,  and,  like  a  woman,  wore  two  circles 
.215 


2i6        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

of  gold  in  his  ears.  He  loved  wine  and  tobacco; 
professed  an  ardent  devotion  for  the  holy  Apostle 
Saint  Thomas;  and,  In  that  he  was  of  a  supersti- 
tious nature  and  given  to  trances,  he  recounted 
singular  and  marvellous  adventures  of  those  for- 
eign countries  and  told  stories  of  the  Dalmatian 
people  and  the  Islands  of  the  Adriatic  as  if  they 
were  tribes  and  countries  In  the  proximity  of  the 
poles.  Francesca,  a  woman  whose  youth  was  on 
the  wane,  had  the  florid  complexion  and  mobile 
features  of  the  Ortonesian  girl.  She  loved  the 
church,  the  religious  functions,  the  sacred  pomp, 
the  music  of  the  organ;  she  lived  in  great  simpli- 
city; and,  since  she  was  somewhat  stunted  In  in- 
telligence, believed  the  most  incredible  things  and 
praised  her  Lord  In  His  every  deed. 

Of  this  union  Anna  was  born  in  the  month  of 
June  of  the  year  1817.  Inasmuch  as  the  confine- 
ment was  severe,  and  they  feared  some  misfortune, 
the  sacrament  of  baptism  was  administered  before 
the  birth  of  the  child.  After  much  travail  the  birth 
took  place.  The  little  creature  drank  nourish- 
ment from  its  mother  and  grew  In  health  and 
happiness.  Toward  evening  Francesca  went  down 
to  the  seacoast,  with  the  nursing  baby  in  her  arms, 
whenever  she  expected  the  skiff  to  return  loaded 
from  Roto,  and  Luca  on  coming  ashore  wore  a 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  217 

shirt  all  scented  with  the  southern  fruits.  When 
mounting  together  to  their  home  above,  they  al- 
ways stopped  a  moment  at  the  church  and  knelt 
in  prayer.  In  the  chapels  the  votive  lamps  were 
burning,  and  in  the  background,  behind  the  seven 
bronzes,  the  statue  of  the  Apostle  sparkled  like  a 
treasure.  Their  prayers  asked  for  celestial  bene- 
diction to  fall  upon  their  daughter.  On  going  out, 
when  the  mother  bathed  Anna's  forehead  in  holy 
water,  her  infantile  screams  echoed  the  length  of 
the  naves. 

The  infancy  of  Anna  passed  smoothly,  without 
any  noteworthy  event.  In  May  of  1823  she  was 
dressed  as  a  cherub,  with  a  crown  of  roses  and  a 
white  veil;  and,  in  the  midst  of  an  angelical  com- 
pany, confusedly  followed  a  procession,  holding  in 
her  hand  a  thin  taper.  In  the  church  her  mother 
wished  to  lift  her  in  her  arms  and  have  her  kiss 
her  protecting  Saint.  But,  as  other  mothers  lifting 
other  cherubs  pushed  through  the  crowd,  the  flame 
of  one  of  the  tapers  caught  Anna's  veil  and  sud- 
denly a  flame  enveloped  her  tender  body.  A  con- 
tagion of  fear  spread  among  the  people  and  each 
one  strove  to  be  the  first  to  escape.  Francesca,  for 
all  that  her  hands  were  almost  rendered  useless 
by  terror,  succeeded  in  tearing  off  the  burning  gar- 
ments, strained  the  nude  and  unconscious  child  to 


21 8         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

her  heart,  threw  herself  down  behind  the  fugitives, 
and  invoked  her  Lord  with  loud  cries. 

From  the  burns  Anna  was  ill  and  in  peril  for 
a  long  time.  She  lay  upon  her  bed  with  thin, 
bloodless  face  and  without  speech  as  if  she  had 
become  mute,  while  her  eyes,  open  and  fixed,  held 
an  expression  of  forgetful  stupor  rather  than  of 
pain.  In  the  autumn  she  recovered  and  went  to 
take  her  vow. 

When  the  weather  was  mild  the  family  de- 
scended to  the  boat  for  their  evening  meal.  Under 
the  awning  Francesca  lit  the  fire  and  placed  the  fish 
upon  it;  the  hospitable  odour  of  the  food  spread 
the  length  of  the  harbour,  blending  with  the  per- 
fume from  the  foHage  of  the  Villa  Onofria.  The 
sea  lay  so  tranquilly  that  one  scarcely  heard  be- 
tween the  rocks  the  rustling  of  the  water,  and  the 
air  was  so  limpid  that  one  saw  the  steeple  of  San 
Vito  emerge  in  the  distance  amid  the  surrounding 
houses.  Luca  and  the  other  men  fell  to  singing, 
while  Anna  tried  to  help  her  mother.  After  the 
meal,  as  the  moon  mounted  in  the  sky,  the  sailors 
prepared  the  skiff  for  weighing  anchor.  Mean- 
while Luca,  under  the  stimulation  of  the  wine  and 
food,  seized  with  his  habitual  avidity  for  miracul- 
ous stories,  commenced  to  tell  of  distant  shores. 
"There  was,  further  up  than  Roto,  a  mountain  all 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  219 

Inhabited  by  monkeys  and  men  from  India ;  it  was 
very  high,  with  plants  that  produced  precious 
stones."  His  wife  and  daughter  listened  in  silent 
astonishment.  Then,  the  sails  unfolded  along  the 
masts,  sails  all  covered  with  black  figures  and 
Catholic  symbols,  like  the  ancient  flags  of  a  coun- 
try.   Thus  Luca  departed. 

In  February  of  1826  Francesca  gave  birth  to  a 
dead  child.  In  the  spring  of  1830  Luca  wished 
to  take  Anna  to  the  promontory.  Anna  was  then 
on  the  threshold  of  girlhood.  The  voyage  was  a 
happy  one.  On  the  high  seas  they  encountered  a 
merchant  vessel,  a  large  ship  borne  along  by 
means  of  Its  enormous  white  sails.  The  dolphins 
swam  in  the  foam ;  the  water  moved  gently  around, 
scintillating,  and  seeming  to  carry  upon  its  sur- 
face a  covering  of  peacock  feathers.  Anna  gazed 
from  the  ship  into  the  distance  with  eyes  never 
satiated.  Then  a  kind  of  blue  cloud  rose  from 
the  line  of  horizon;  it  was  the  fruit  covered  moun- 
tain. 

The  coast  of  Puglla  came  Into  view  little  by 
little  under  the  sunlight.  The  perfume  of  the 
lemons  permeated  the  morning  air.  When  Anna 
descended  to  the  shore,  she  was  overcome  by  a 
sense  of  gladness  as  she  examined  curiously  the 
.plantations  and  the  men  native  to  the  place.    Her 


220        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

father  took  her  to  the  house  of  a  woman  no  longer 
young,  who  spoke  with  a  slight  stutter. 

They  remained  with  her  two  days.  Once  Anna 
saw  her  father  kiss  this  woman  upon  the  mouth, 
but  she  did  not  understand.  On  their  return  the 
skiff  was  loaded  with  oranges,  and  the  sea  was  still 
gentle.  Anna  preserved  the  remembrance  of  that 
voyage  as  if  it  were  a  dream;  and,  since  she  was 
by  nature  taciturn,  she  did  not  recount  many  stories 
of  It  to  her  comrades,  who  pursued  her  with  ques- 
tions. 

II 

In  the  following  May,  to  the  festival  of  the 
Apostle,  came  the  Archbishop  of  Orsogna.  The 
church  was  entirely  decorated  with  red  draperies 
and  leaves  of  gold,  while  before  the  bronze  rails 
burned  eleven  silver  lamps  fashioned  by  silver- 
smiths for  religious  purposes,  and  every  evening 
the  orchestra  sang  a  solemn  oratorio  with  a  splen- 
did chorus  of  childish  voices.  On  Saturday  the 
statue  of  the  Apostle  was  to  be  shown.  Devotees 
made  pilgrimages  from  all  the  maritime  and  in- 
land countries ;  they  came  up  the  coast,  singing  and 
bearing  in  their  hands  votive  offerings,  with  the 
sea  in  full  sight. 

Anna  on  Friday  had  her  first  communion.  The 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  221 

Archbishop  was  an  old  man,  reverent  and  gentle, 
and  when  he  lifted  his  hand  to  bless  her,  the  jewel 
in  his  ring  shone  like  a  divine  eye.  Anna,  when 
she  felt  on  her  tongue  the  wafer  of  the  Eucharist, 
became  blinded  with  a  sudden  wave  of  joy  that 
seemed  to  moisten  her  hair,  like  a  soft  and  tepid 
scented  bath.  Behind  her  a  murmur  ran  through 
the  multitude;  near  by  other  virgins  were  taking 
the  Sacrament  and  bowing  their  faces  upon  the 
rail  in  great  contrition. 

That  evening  Francesca  wished  to  sleep,  as  was 
the  custom  among  the  worshippers,  upon  the  pave- 
ment of  the  church,  while  awaiting  the  early  morn- 
ing revelation  of  the  saint.  She  was  seven  months 
with  child  and  the  weight  of  it  wearied  her  greatly. 
On  the  pavement,  the  pilgrims  lay  crowded  to- 
gether, while  heat  emanating  from  their  bodies 
filled  the  air.  Diverse  confused  cries  issued  at 
times  from  some  of  those  unconscious  with  sleep ; 
the  flames  of  the  burning  oil  in  the  cups  trembled 
and  were  reflected  as  they  hung  suspended  be- 
tween the  arches,  while  through  the  openings  of 
the  large  doors  the  stars  glittered  in  the  early 
spring  night. 

Francesca  lay  awake  for  two  hours  in  pain,  since 
the  exhalations  from  the  sleepers  gave  her  nausea. 
^But,  having  determined  to  resist  and  to  endure  for 


222         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

the  welfare  of  her  soul,  she  was  overcome  at  last 
by  weariness  and  bent  her  head  in  sleep.  At  dawn 
she  awoke.  Expectation  increased  in  the  souls  of 
the  watchers  and  more  people  arrived.  In  each 
one  burned  the  desire  to  be  the  first  to  see  the 
Apostle.  At  length  the  first  grating  was  opened, 
the  noise  of  its  hinges  resounding  clearly  through 
the  silence,  and  echoing  in  all  hearts.  The  second 
grating  was  opened,  then  the  third,  the  fourth,  the 
fifth,  the  sixth,  and  finally  the  last.  It  seemed  now 
as  if  a  cyclone  had  struck  the  crowd.  The  mass 
of  men  hurled  themselves  toward  the  tabernacle, 
sharp  cries  rang  in  the  air;  ten,  fifteen  persons 
were  wounded  and  suffocated  while  a  tumultuous 
prayer  arose.  The  dead  were  dragged  to  the  open 
air.  The  body  of  Francesca,  all  bruised  and  livid, 
was  carried  to  her  family.  Many  curious  ones 
crowded  around  it,  and  her  relatives  lamented 
piteously.  Anna,  when  she  saw  her  mother 
stretched  on  the  bed,  purple  in  the  face  and  stained 
with  blood,  fell  to  the  earth  unconscious.  After- 
wards, for  many  months  she  was  tormented  by 
epilepsy. 

Ill 

In  the  summer  of  1835  Luca  set  sail  for  a 
Grecian  port  upon  the  skiff  "Trinita"  belonging 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  223 

to  Don  Giovanni  Camacclone.  Moreover,  as  he 
held  a  secret  thought  In  his  mind,  before  leaving, 
he  sold  his  furniture  and  asked  some  relatives  to 
keep  Anna  In  their  house  until  he  should  return. 
Some  time  after  that  the  skiff  returned  loaded  with 
dried  figs  and  eggs  from  Corinth,  after  having 
touched  at  the  coast  of  Roto.  Luca  was  not  among 
the  crew,  and  It  became  known  later  that  he  had 
remained  In  the  "country  of  the  oranges"  with  a 
lady-love. 

Anna  remembered  their  former  stuttering 
hostess.  A  deep  sadness  settled  down  upon  her 
life  at  this  recollection.  The  house  of  her  relatives 
was  on  the  eastern  road.  In  the  vicinity  of  Molo. 
The  sailors  came  there  to  drink  wine  in  a  low 
room,  where  almost  all  day  their  songs  resounded 
amid  the  smoke  of  their  pipes.  Anna  passed  in 
and  out  among  the  drinkers,  carrying  full  pitchers, 
and  her  first  instinct  of  modesty  awoke  from  that 
continuous  contact,  that  continuous  association  with 
bestial  men.  Every  moment  she  had  to  endure 
their  impudent  jokes,  cruel  laughter  and  suggestive 
gestures,  the  wickedness  of  men  worn  out  by  the 
fatigues  of  a  sallor^s  life.  She  dared  not  complain, 
because  she  ate  her  bread  in  the  house  of  another. 
But  that  continuous  ordeal  weakened  her  and  a 


224        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

serious  mental  derangement  arose  little  by  little 
from  her  weakened  condition. 

Naturally  affectionate,  she  had  a  great  love  for 
animals.  An  aged  ass  was  housed  under  a  shed  of 
straw  and  clay  behind  the  house.  The  gentle  beast 
dally  bore  burdens  of  wine  from  Saint  Apolllnare 
to  the  tavern;  and  for  all  that  his  teeth  had  com- 
menced to  grow  yellow,  and  his  hoofs  to  decay, 
for  all  that  his  skin  was  already  parched  and  had 
scarcely  a  hair  upon  it,  still,  at  the  sight  of  a 
flowering  thistle  he  put  up  his  ears  and  began  to 
bray  vivaciously  in  his  former  youthful  way. 

Anna  filled  his  manger  with  fodder  and  his 
trough  with  water.  When  the  heat  was  severe, 
she  came  to  rest  in  the  shadow  of  the  shed.  The 
ass  ground  up  wisps  of  straw  laboriously  between 
his  jaws  and  she  with  a  leafy  branch  performed  a 
work  of  kindness  by  keeping  his  back  free  from 
the  molestation  of  insects.  From  time  to  time  the 
ass  turned  its  long-eared  head  with  a  curling  of 
the  flaccid  lips  which  revealed  the  gums  as  if  per- 
forming a  reddish  animal  smile  of  gratitude,  and 
with  an  oblique  movement  of  his  eye  in  its  orbit 
showed  the  yellowish  ball  veined  with  purple  like 
a  gall  bladder.  The  insects  circled  with  a  continu- 
ous buzzing  around  the  dung-heap;  neither  from 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  225 

earth  nor  sea  came  a  sound,  and  an  Infinite  sense 
of  peace  filled  the  soul  of  the  woman. 

In  April  of  1842  Pantaleo,  the  man  who  guided 
the  beast  of  burden  on  his  dally  journeys,  died 
from  a  knife-wound.  From  that  time  on  the  duty 
fell  to  Anna.  Either  she  left  at  dawn  and  returned 
by  noon,  or  she  left  at  noon  and  returned  by  night. 
The  road  wound  over  a  sunny  hill  planted  with 
olives,  descended  through  a  moist  country  used 
for  pasture,  and  on  rising  again  through  vineyards, 
arrived  at  the  factories  of  Saint  Apollinare.  The 
ass-  walked  wearily  in  front  with  lowered  ears,  a 
green  fringe  all  worn  and  discoloured  beat  against 
his  ribs  and  haunches  and  in  the  pack-saddle  glit- 
tered several  fragments  of  brass  plate. 

When  the  animal  stopped  to  regain  his  breath, 
Anna  gave  him  a  little  caressing  blow  on  the  neck 
and  urged  him  with  her  voice,  because  she  had  pity 
for  his  infirmities.  Every  so  often  she  tore  from 
the  hedges  a  handful  of  leaves  and  offered  them  to 
him  for  refreshment ;  she  was  moved  on  feeling  in 
her  palm  the  soft  movement  of  his  lips  as  they 
nibbled  her  offering.  The  hedges  were  in  bloom 
and  the  blossoms  of  the  white  thorn  had  a  flavour 
of  bitter  almonds. 

^    On  the  confines  of  the  olive  grove  was  a  large 
cistern,  and  near  this  cistern  a  long,  stone  canal 


226         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

where  the  animals  came  to  drink.  Every  day 
Anna  paused  at  this  spot  and  here  she  and  the  ass 
quenched  their  thirst  before  continuing  the  journey. 
Once  she  encountered  the  keeper  of  a  herd  of  cat- 
tle, who  was  a  native  of  Tollo  and  whose  expres- 
sion was  a  little  cross  and  who  had  a  hare-lip.  The 
man  returned  her  greeting  and  they  began  to  con- 
verse on  the  pasturage  and  the  water,  then  on 
sanctuaries  and  miracles.  Anna  listened  gracious- 
ly and  with  frequent  smiles.  She  was  lean  and 
pale  with  very  clear  eyes  and  uncommonly  large 
mouth,  and  her  auburn  hair  was  smoothed  back 
without  a  part.  On  her  neck  one  saw  the  red 
scars  of  her  burns  and  her  veins  stood  out  and 
palpitated  incessantly. 

From  that  time  on  their  conversations  were  re- 
peated at  intervals.  Through  the  grass  the  cattle 
dispersed,  either  lying  down  and  pondering  or 
standing  and  eating.  Their  peaceful  moving  forms 
added  to  the  tranquillity  of  the  pastoral  solitude. 
Anna,  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  cistern,  talked 
simply  and  the  man  with  his  split  lip  seemed  over- 
come with  love.  One  day  with  a  sudden,  spontane- 
ous blossoming  of  her  memory,  she  told  of  her  sail- 
ing to  the  mountain  of  Roto;  and,  since  the  re- 
moteness of  the  time  had  blurred  her  memory,  she 
told  marvellous  things  with  a  strong  appearance  of 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  227 

truth.  The  man,  astonished,  listened  without  wink- 
ing an  eye.  When  i\nna  stopped  speaking,  to 
both  the  surrounding  silence  and  solitude  seemed 
deeper  and  both  remained  in  thought.  Then  the 
cattle,  driven  by  habit,  came  to  the  trough  and 
between  their  legs  dangled  the  bags  of  milk  sup- 
plied anew  from  the  pasture.  As  they  thrust  their 
noses  into  the  stream,  the  water  diminished  with 
their  slow,  regular  gulps. 


IV 

During  the  last  days  of  June  the  ass  fell  sick. 
It  took  neither  food  nor  drink  for  almost  a  week. 
The  daily  journeys  were  interrupted.  One  morn- 
ing Anna,  descending  to  the  shed,  found  the  beast 
all  cramped  upon  the  straw  in  a  pitiable  condition. 
A  kind  of  hoarse,  tenacious  cough  shook  from  time 
to  time  his  huge  frame  thinly  covered  with  skin, 
while  above  the  eyes  two  deep  cavities  had  formed 
like  two  hollow  orbits,  and  the  eyes  themselves 
resembled  two  great  bladders  filled  with  whey. 
When  the  ass  heard  Anna's  voice  he  tried  to  get 
up;  his  body  reeled  upon  his  legs,  his  neck  sank 
beneath  the  sharp  shoulder-blades,  and  his  ears 
dangled,  with  involuntary  and  ungainly  motions, 
like  those  of  a  big  toy  broken  at  the  hinges.    A 


228        TALES  OF  MY  'NATIVE  TOWN 

mucous  liquid  dropped  from  his  nose,  sometimes 
flowing  in  little  sluggish  rivulets  down  to  his  knees. 
The  raw  spots  in  the  skin  turned  the  colour  of 
azure,  and  the  sores  here  and  there  bled. 

Anna,  at  this  sight,  was  inwardly  torn  by  a  pity- 
ing anguish;  and,  since  by  nature  and  by  habit  she 
never  experienced  any  physical  repugnance  on  com- 
ing in  contact  with  things  commonly  regarded  as 
repellant,  she  drew  near  to  touch  the  animal.  With 
one  hand  she  held  up  his  lower  jaw  and  with  the 
other  a  shoulder  and  thus  sought  to  help  him  walk, 
hoping  that  exercise  might  do  him  good.  At  first 
the  animal  hesitated,  shaken  by  new  outbreaks  of 
coughing,  but  at  length  he  began  to  walk  down  the 
gentle  incline  that  led  to  the  shore.  The  water 
before  them  shone  white  In  the  birth  of  the  morn- 
ing and  the  Calafatti  near  La  Penna  were  smear- 
ing a  keel  with  pitch.  As  Anna  sustained  her  bur- 
den with  her  hands,  and  held  the  halter  rope,  the 
ass  through  a  misstep  of  a  hind  leg  fell  suddenly. 
The  great  structure  of  bones  gave  a  rattle  within 
as  if  ruptured,  the  skin  over  the  stomach  and 
flanks  resounded  dully  and  palpitated.  The  legs 
made  a  motion  as  if  to  run,  while  blood  Issued 
from  the  gums  and  spread  among  the  teeth. 

The  woman  began  to  call  and  run  toward  the 
house.    But  the  Calafatti,  having  arrived,  laughed 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  229 

and  joked  at  the  reclining  ass.  One  of  them  struck 
the  dying  beast  in  the  stomach  with  his  foot.  An- 
other grabbed  his  ears  and  raised  his  head,  which 
sank  heavily  again  to  earth.  The  eyes  at  length 
closed,  a  chill  ran  over  the  white  skin  of  the  stom- 
ach, parting  the  tufts  of  hair  as  a  wind  would  do, 
while  one  of  his  hind  legs  beat  two  or  three  times 
in  the  air.  Then  all  was  still,  except  that  in  the 
shoulder,  where  there  was  an  ulcer,  a  slight  quiver- 
ing took  place,  like  that  caused  by  some  Insect  a 
moment  before  in  the  living  flesh.  When  Anna 
returned  to  the  spot  she  found  the  Calafatti  drag- 
ging the  carcass  by  the  tail,  and  singing  a  Requiem 
with  imitation  brays. 

Thus  Anna  was  left  alone.  Still  for  a  long 
time  she  lived  on  In  the  house  of  her  relatives  and 
gradually  faded,  while  she  fulfilled  her  humble 
duties  and  endured  with  much  Christian  patience 
her  vexations.  In  1845  ^^^  epilepsy  returned  to 
her  with  violence,  but  disappeared  again  after 
some  months.  Her  religious  faith  became  at  the 
same  time  more  deep  and  living.  She  went  up  to 
the  church  every  morning  and  every  evening,  and 
knelt  habitually  In  an  obscure  corner  protected 
by  a  great  pillar  of  marble  where  was  pictured  In 
rough  bas-relief  the  flight  of  the  Holy  Family  into 
Egypt.     Did  she  not  at  first  choose  that  corner 


230         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

because  she  was  attracted  by  the  gentle  ass  bear- 
ing the  child  Jesus  and  His  mother  from  the  land 
of  idolatry?  A  great  peace  as  of  love  descended 
upon  her  soul  when  she  bent  her  knees  in  the 
shadow,  and  prayers  rose  unpolluted  from  her 
breast  as  from  a  natural  spring,  because  she 
prayed  only  through  a  blind  passion  to  adore,  and 
not  through  any  hope  to  obtain  the  grace  of  happi- 
ness in  her  own  life.  She  prayed  with  her  head 
lowered  on  a  chair,  and  as  Christians,  in  coming 
and  going,  touched  the  holy  water  with  their 
fingers  and  crossed  themselves,  she  from  time  to 
time  shivered  on  feeling  on  her  hair  some  welcome 
drops  of  the  holy  water. 


When  in  the  year  1851  Anna  came  for  the  first 
time  to  the  country  of  Pescara,  the  feast  of 
Rosario  was  approaching,  which  is  celebrated  on 
the  first  Sunday  of  October. 

The  woman  came  from  Ortona  on  foot,  for  the 
purpose  of  fulfilling  a  vow;  and  bearing  with  her, 
hidden  in  a  handkerchief  of  silk,  a  little  heart  of 
silver,  she  walked  religiously  along  the  seacoast; 
since  at  that  time  the  province  road  was  not  yet 
constructed,  and  a  wood  of  pines  almost  covered 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  231 

the  virgin  soil.  The  day  was  calm,  save  that  the 
waves  of  the  sea  were  ever  increasing  and  at  the 
farthest  point  of  the  horizon  the  clouds  continued 
to  rise  In  the  shape  of  large  funnels.  Anna  walked 
on  entirely  absorbed  in  holy  thoughts.  Towards 
evening,  as  she  was  approaching  Salini,  suddenly 
the  rain  began  to  fall,  at  first  gently,  but  later  in  a 
great  downpour;  so  much  so  that,  not  finding  any 
shelter,  she  was  wet  through  and  through. 
Further  on,  the  gorge  of  the  Alento  was  flooded, 
and  she  had  to  remove  her  shoes  and  ford  the 
river.  In  the  vicinity  of  Vallelonga  the  rain 
ceased,  and  the  forest  of  pines  serenely  revived 
gave  forth  an  odour  almost  of  incense.  Anna, 
rendering  thanks  In  her  soul  to  her  Lord,  followed 
the  shore  path  with  steps  more  rapid,  since  she 
felt  the  unwholesome  dampness  penetrate  her 
bones,  and  her  teeth  began  to  chatter  from  a  chill. 
At  Pescara  she  was  suddenly  stricken  with  a 
swamp-fever,  and  cared  for  through  pity  in  the 
house  of  Donna  Cristina  Baslle.  From  her  bed 
on  hearing  the  sacred  chants,  and  seeing  the  tops 
of  the  standards  wave  to  the  height  of  her  win- 
dow, she  set  herself  to  praying  and  Invoking  her 
recovery.  When  the  Virgin  passed  she  could  see 
only  the  jewelled  crown,  and  she  endeavoured  to 
kneel  upon  the  pillows  In  order  to  worship. 


232         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

After  three  weeks  she  recovered  and  Donna 
Cristina  having  asked  her  to  remain,  she  stayed 
on  in  the  capacity  of  a  servant.  She  had  a  little 
room  looking  out  upon  a  court.  The  walls  were 
whitened  with  plaster,  an  old  screen  covered  with 
curious  figures  blocked  a  corner,  and  among  the 
beams  of  the  roof  many  spiders  stretched  In  peace 
their  Intricate  webs.  Under  the  window  projected 
a  short  roof,  and  further  down  opened  the  court 
full  of  tame  birds.  On  the  roof  grew  from  a  pile 
of  earth  enclosed  with  five  tiles  a  tobacco  plant. 
The  sun  lingered  there  from  early  in  the  morning 
until  the  evening.  Every  summer  the  plant 
bloomed.  Anna,  in  this  new  life,  in  this  new 
house,  little  by  little  felt  herself  revive  and  her 
natural  inclination  for  order  reasserted  itself. 

She  attended  tranquilly  and  without  speaking 
to  all  her  duties.  Meanwhile  her  belief  in  things 
supernatural  increased.  Two  or  three  legends  had 
in  the  distant  past  established  themselves  with 
regard  to  certain  spots  in  the  Basile  house,  and 
from  generation  to  generation  they  had  been 
handed  down.  In  the  yellow  room  on  the  second 
floor  (now  unoccupied)  lived  the  soul  of  Donna 
Isabella.  In  a  dark  room  with  a  winding  stair- 
case descending  to  a  door  that  had  not  been  opened 
for  a  long  time,  lived  the  soul  of  Don  Samuele. 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  233 

Those  two  names  exercised  a  singular  power 
over  the  present  occupants,  and  diffused  through 
the  entire  ancient  building  a  kind  of  conventional 
solemnity.  Further,  as  the  Inside  court  was  sur- 
rounded by  many  roofs,  the  cats  on  the  loggia 
gathered  in  counsel  and  mewed  with  a  mysterious 
sweetness,  while  begging  Anna  for  bits  from  her 
meals. 

In  March  of  the  year  1853  the  husband  of 
Donna  Cristina  after  many  weeks  of  convulsions 
died  of  a  urinary  disease.  He  was  a  God  fearing 
man,  domestic  and  charitable,  at  the  head  of  a 
congregation  of  landowners,  read  theological 
works,  and  knew  how  to  play  on  the  piano  several 
simple  airs  of  the  ancient  Neapolitan  masters. 
When  the  viaticum  arrived,  magnificent  with  Its 
quantity  of  servers  and  richness  of  equipage,  Anna 
knelt  on  the  doorsill  and  prayed  In  a  loud  voice. 
The  room  filled  with  the  vapour  of  incense,  In  the 
midst  of  which  glittered  the  cyhorium  and  the 
censers  flickering  like  burning  lamps.  One  heard 
weeping,  and  then  arose  the  voices  of  the  priests 
recommending  the  soul  to  the  Most  High.  Anna, 
carried  away  by  the  solemnity  of  that  sacrament, 
lost  all  horror  of  death,  and  from  that  time  on 
the  death  of  a  Christian  seemed  to  her  a  journey 
sweet  and  joyful. 


234         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Donna  Cristina  kept  the  windows  of  her  house 
closed  for  an  entire  month.  She  mourned  for  her 
husband  at  the  hours  of  dinner  and  supper,  gave 
in  his  name  alms  to  beggars;  and  many  times  a 
day,  with  the  tall  of  a  fox  swished  the  dust  from 
his  piano,  as  If  from  a  relic,  while  emitting  sighs. 
She  was  a  woman  of  forty  years,  tending  toward 
fleshiness,  although  still  youthful  in  her  form 
which  sterility  had  preserved.  And  since  she  in- 
herited from  the  deceased  a  considerable  sum,  the 
five  oldest  bachelors  of  the  country  began  to  lay 
ambushes  for  her  and  to  allure  her  with  flattering 
wiles  to  new  nuptials.  The  competitors  were: 
Don  Ignazio  Cespa,  an  effeminate  person,  of 
ambiguous  sex,  with  the  face  of  an  old  gossip 
marked  from  the  small-pox,  and  a  head  of  hair 
filled  with  cosmetics,  with  fingers  heavy  from  rings 
and  ears  pierced  with  two  minute  circles  of  gold; 
Don  Paolo  Neavegna,  doctor  of  law,  a  man  talk- 
ative and  keen,  who  had  his  lips  always  curled 
as  if  he  were  chewing  on  some  bitter  herb,  and  a 
kind  of  red,  unconcealable  wart  on  his  forehead; 
Don  Fileno  d'Amelio,  a  new  leader  of  the  con- 
gregation, slightly  bald,  with  a  forehead  sloping 
backward,  and  deep-set  lamb-like  eyes;  Don 
Pompeo  Pepe,  a  jocular  man  and  a  lover  of  wine, 
women  and  leisure,  luxuriantly  corpulent,  especial- 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  235 

ly  In  his  face  and  sonorous  In  laughter  and  speech; 
Don  Flore  Ussorlo,  a  man  of  pugnacious  disposi- 
tion, a  great  reader  of  political  works,  and  a 
triumphant  quoter  of  historical  examples  In  every 
dispute,  pallid  with  an  unearthly  pallor,,  with  a 
thin  circle  of  beard  around  his  cheeks  and  a  mouth 
peculiarly  leaning  toward  an  oblique  line.  To 
these  were  added,  as  a  help  to  Donna  Cristlna's 
power  of  resistance,  the  Abbot  Egldlo  Cennamele 
who,  wishing  to  draw  the  heritage  to  the  benefit 
of  the  church,  with  well  covered  cleverness  an- 
tagonised the  wooers  by  means  of  flattery.  This 
great  contest,  which  some  day  should  be  narrated 
In  more  detail,  lasted  a  long  time  and  held  great 
variety  of  incident. 

The  principal  theatre  of  the  first  act  was  the 
dining-room — a  rectangular  room  where  on  the 
French  paper  of  the  walls  were  graphically  rep- 
resented the  facts  of  Ulysses'  sail  to  the  island  of 
Calypso.  Almost  every  evening  the  combatants 
assembled  around  the  besieged's  window  and 
played  the  game  of  briscola  and  of  love 
alternately. 

VI 

Anna  was  a  constant  witness.  She  introduced 
the  visitors,  spread  the  cloth  upon  the  table,  and. 


236         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

In  the  midst  of  the  siege,  brought  In  glasses  full 
of  a  greenish  cordial  mixed  by  the  nuns  with  spe- 
cial drugs.  Once  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  heard 
Don  Flore  Ussorlo,  in  the  heat  of  a  dispute,  insult 
the  Abbot  Cennamele  who  spoke  submissively; 
and  since  this  irreverence  seemed  monstrous  to 
her,  from  that  time  on  she  judged  Don  Fiore  to 
be  a  diabolical  man  and  at  his  appearance  rapidly 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  murmured  a  Pater. 

One  day  In  the  spring  of  1856  while  on  the 
bank  of  the  Pescara,  she  saw  a  fleet  of  boats  pass 
the  mouth  of  the  river  and  sail  slowly  up  the  cur- 
rent of  the  stream.  The  sun  was  serene,  the  two 
shores  were  mirrored  in  the  depths  facing  one 
another,  some  green  branches  and  several  baskets 
of  reeds  floated  in  the  midst  of  the  current  toward 
the  sea  like  placid  symbols,  and  the  barks,  with 
the  mitre  of  Saint  Thomas  painted  for  an  ensign 
In  a  corner  of  their  sails,  proceeded  thus  on  the 
beautiful  river  sanctified  by  the  legend  of  Saint 
Cetteo  Liberatore.  Recollections  of  her  birth- 
place awoke  In  the  soul  of  the  woman  with  a  sud- 
den start,  at  that  sight;  and  on  thinking  of  her 
father,  she  was  overcome  with  a  deep  tenderness. 

The  barks  were  Ortoneslan  skiffs  and  came 
from  the  promontory  of  Roto  with  a  cargo  of 
lemons.     Anna,  when  the  anchors  were  cast,  ap- 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  237 

proached  the  sailors  and  gazed  at  them  in  silence 
with  a  curiosity  yearning  and  fearful.  One  of 
them,  struck  by  her  expression,  recognised  her  and 
questioned  her  familiarly:  "Whom  was  she  seek- 
ing? What  did  she  want?"  Then  Anna  drew 
the  man  aside  and  asked  him  If  by  chance  he  had 
seen  In  the  ''country  of  the  oranges"  Luca  MInella, 
her  father.  "He  had  not  seen  him?  He  no 
longer  lived  with  that  woman?"  The  man  an- 
swered that  Luca  had  been  dead  for  some  time. 
"He  was  old,  and  could  not  live  very  long?"  Then 
Anna  restrained  her  tears  and  wished  to  know 
many  things.  "Luca  had  married  that  woman 
and  they  had  had  two  children.  The  elder  of  the 
two  sailed  upon  a  skiff  and  came  sometimes  to 
Pescara  for  trade."    Anna  started. 

A  perplexing  confusion,  a  kind  of  troubled  dis- 
may seized  her  mind.  She  could  not  regain  her 
equilibrium  In  the  face  of  these  complicated  facts. 
She  had  two  brothers  then?  She  must  love  them? 
She  must  endeavour  to  see  them?  Now  what 
ought  she  to  do?  Thus,  wavering,  she  returned 
home.  Afterwards,  for  many  evenings,  when 
the  barks  entered  the  river,  she  descended  the  long 
dock  to  watch  the  sailors.  One  skiff  brought  from 
Dalmatia  a  load  of  asses  and  ponies.  The  beasts 
on  reaching  land  stamped  and  the  air  rang  with 


238         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

their  brays  and  neighs.    Anna,  In  passing,  stroked 
the  large  heads  of  the  asses. 


VII 

At  about  that  time  she  received  as  a  gift  from 
a  squire  a  turtle.  This  new  pet,  heavy  and  taci- 
turn, was  her  delight  and  care  In  her  leisure  hours. 
It  walked  from  one  end  of  the  room  to  the  other, 
lifting  with  difficulty  from  the  ground  the  great 
weight  of  Its  body.  It  had  claws,  like  olive- 
coloured  stumps,  and  was  young;  the  sections  of 
Its  dorsal  shield,  spotted  yellow  and  black,  glit- 
tered often  In  the  sunlight  with  a  shade  of  amber. 
The  head  covered  with  scales,  tapering  to  the  nose 
and  yellowish,  projected  and  nodded  with  timor- 
ous benignity,  and  It  seemed  sometimes  like  the 
head  of  an  old  worn-out  serpent  that  had  issued 
from  the  husk  of  Its  own  skin.  Anna  was  much 
delighted  with  the  traits  of  the  animal;  Its  silence. 
Its  frugality.  Its  modesty.  Its  love  of  home.  She 
fed  It  with  leaves,  roots  and  worms,  while  watch- 
ing ecstatically  the  movement  of  Its  little  horned 
and  ragged  jaws.  She  experienced  almost  a  feel- 
ing of  maternity  as  she  gently  called  the  animal 
and  chose  for  It  the  tenderest  and  sweetest  herbs. 
Then  the  turtle  became  the  presager  of  an  Idyl. 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  239 

The  squire,  on  coming  many  times  a  day  to  the 
house,  lingered  on  the  loggia  to  chat  with  Anna. 
Since  he  was  a  man  of  humble  spirit,  devout,  pru- 
dent, and  just,  he  enjoyed  seeing  the  reflections  of 
his  pious  virtues  In  the  soul  of  the  woman.  Hence, 
from  habit  there  arose  between  the  two,  little  by 
little,  a  friendly  familiarity.  Anna  already  had 
several  white  hairs  on  her  temples,  and  a  placid 
sincerity  suffused  her  face.  Zacchlele  exceeded  her 
In  age  by  several  years ;  he  had  a  large  head  with 
bulging  forehead  and  two  gentle,  round,  rabblt- 
llke  eyes.  During  their  soliloquies  they  sat  for 
the  most  part  on  the  loggia.  Above  them,  be- 
tween the  roofs,  the  sky  seemed  a  transparent 
cupola,  while  at  Intervals  the  pet  doves  In  their 
soarings  traversed  this  patch  of  the  heavens. 
Their  conversations  turned  upon  the  harvests,  the 
frultfulness  of  the  earth  and  simple  rules  for 
cultivation,  and  they  were  both  full  of  experience 
and  self-denial.  Since  Zacchlele  loved  at  times, 
because  of  a  natural  diffident  vanity,  to  make  show 
of  his  knowledge  before  the  ignorant  and  credu- 
lous woman,  she  conceived  for  him  an  unlimited 
esteem  and  admiration.  She  learned  from  him 
that  the  earth  was  divided  into  five  races  of  men : 
the  white,  the  yellow,  the  red,  the  black,  and  the 
brown.     She  learned  that  in  form  the  earth  was 


240        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

round,  that  Romulus  and  Remus  were  nourished 
by  a  wolf,  and  that  In  autumn  the  swallows  flew 
over  the  sea  to  Egypt  where  the  Pharaohs  reigned 
in  ancient  times.  But  did  not  men  all  have  one 
colour,  in  the  image  and  semblance  of  God?  How 
could  we  walk  upon  a  ball?  Who  were  the 
Pharaohs?  She  did  not  succeed  In  understand- 
ing and  thus  remained  completely  confused. 
However,  after  that  she  regarded  the  swallows 
with  reverence  and  judged  them  to  be  birds  gifted 
with  human  foresight. 

One  day  Zacchiele  showed  her  a  copy  of  the 
Old  Testament,  Illustrated  with  drawings.  Anna 
examined  it  slowly,  listening  to  his  explanations. 
She  saw  Adam  and  Eve  among  the  hares  and 
fawns,  Noah  half  nude  kneeling  before  an  altar, 
the  three  angels  of  Abraham,  Moses  rescued  from 
the  water;  she  saw  with  joy  finally  a  Pharaoh,  in 
the  presence  of  the  rod  of  Moses,  changed  into 
a  serpent;  the  queen  of  Sheba,  the  feast  of  the 
Tabernacle,  and  the  martyrdom  of  the  Maccabees. 
The  affair  of  Balaam's  ass  filled  her  with  wonder 
and  tenderness.  The  story  of  the  cup  of  Joseph 
in  the  sack  of  Benjamin  caused  her  to  burst  into 
tears.  Now  she  Imagined  the  Israelites  walking 
through  a  desert  all  covered  with  scales,  under  a 
dew  that  was  called  manna  and  which  was  white 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  241 

like  snow  and  sweeter  than  bread.  After  the 
Sacred  History,  seized  with  a  strange  ambition, 
Zacchiele  began  to  read  to  her  of  the  enterprises 
of  the  kings  of  France  with  the  Emperor  Con- 
stantine  up  to  the  time  of  Orlando,  Count  of 
Anglante.  A  great  tumult  then  upset  the  woman's 
mind,  the  battles  of  the  Philistines  and  Syrians  she 
confused  with  the  battles  of  the  Saracens,  Holo- 
fernes  with  Rizierl,  King  Saul  with  King  Mam- 
briii|>,  Eleazar  with  Balante,  Naomi  with  Ga- 
leana. 

Worn  out  she  no  longer  followed  the  thread 
of  the  narrative,  but  shivered  only  at  intervals 
when  she  heard  fall  from  the  lips  of  Zacchiele 
the  sound  of  some  beloved  name.  And  she  had 
a  strong  liking  for  Dusollna  and  the  Duke  of 
Bovetto,  who  seized  all  of  England  while  becom- 
ing enamoured  of  the  daughter  of  the  Frisian 
King. 

The  first  day  of  September  came.  In  the  air, 
tempered  with  recent  rain,  was  a  placid  autumnal 
clarity.  Anna's  room  became  the  spot  for  their 
readings.  One  day  Zacchiele,  seated,  read  "how 
Galeana,  daughter  of  the  King  Galafro,  became 
enamoured  of  Malnetto  and  wished  to  make  him 
a  garland  of  green." 

Anna,  because  the  fable  seemed  simple   and 


242         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

rustic,  and  because  the  voice  of  the  reader  seemed 
to  sweeten  with  new  inflections,  listened  with  evi- 
dent eagerness.  The  turtle  gently  dragged  itself 
over  several  leaves  of  lettuce,  the  sun  illumined  a 
great  spider's  web  upon  the  window,  and  one  saw 
the  last  red  flowers  of  the  tobacco  plant  through 
the  subtle  threads  of  gold. 

When  the  chapter  was  finished  Zacchiele  laid 
aside  the  book,  and,  gazing  at  the  woman,  smiled 
with  one  of  those  simple  smiles  of  his,  which  had 
a  way  of  wrinkling  his  temples  and  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  Then  he  began  to  speak  to  her 
vaguely,  with  the  timidity  of  one  who  does  not 
quite  know  how  to  arrive  at  the  desired  point. 
Finally  he  was  filled  with  ardour.  Had  she  never 
thought  of  matrimony?  Anna  did  not  reply  to 
this  question.  Both  remained  silent  and  both  felt 
in  their  souls  a  confused  sweetness,  almost  an 
astonished  reawakening  of  buried  youth  and  a  re- 
claiming of  love.  They  were  excited  by  it  as  if 
the  fumes  of  a  very  strong  wine  had  mounted  to 
their  weakened  brains. 


VIII 

But  a  tacit  promise  of  marriage  was  given  many 
days  later,  in  October,  at  the  first  birth  of  the 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  243 

oil  in  the  olive,  and  at  the  last  migration  of  the 
swallows.  With  Donna  Cristlna's  permission,  one 
Monday  Zacchlele  took  Anna  to  the  factory  on 
the  hills  where  his  mill  was  located.  They  left 
by  the  Portasale,  on  foot,  took  the  Salaria  road, 
turning  their  backs  on  the  river.  From  the  day 
of  the  fable  of  Galeana  and  Malnetto,  they  had 
experienced,  the  one  toward  the  other,  a  kind  of 
trepidation,  a  mixture  of  bashful  timidity  and  re- 
spect. They  had  lost  that  beautiful  familiarity 
of  previous  times;  now  they  spoke  seldom  to- 
gether and  always  with  a  hesitating  reserve, 
avoiding  each  other's  face,  with  uncertain  smiles, 
becoming  confused  at  times  through  a  sudden 
blush,  dallying  thus  with  timid,  childish  acts  of 
innocence. 

They  walked  in  silence,  at  first,  each  following 
the  dry  and  narrow  path  which  the  footsteps  of 
travellers  had  marked  on  both  sides  of  the  road, 
and  between  them  ran  the  road,  muddy  and  in- 
dented with  deep  ruts  from  the  wheels  of  vehicles. 
The  unrestrained  joy  of  the  vintage  filled  the 
country;  the  songs  at  the  crushing  of  the  wine  re- 
sounded over  the  plain.  Zacchlele  kept  slightly  in 
the  rear,  breaking  the  silence  from  time  to  time 
with  some  remark  on  the  weather,  the  vines,  the 
harvest  of  olives,  while  Anna  examined  curiously 


244         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

all  of  the  bushes  flaming  with  berries,  the  tilled 
fields,  the  water  in  the  ditches ;  and,  little  by  little, 
a  vague  joy  was  born  In  her  soul,  like  one  who, 
after  a  long  period  of  fasting,  Is  rejoiced  by 
pleasant  sensations  experienced  long  ago.  As  the 
road  took  a  turn  up  the  declivity  through  the  rich 
olive  orchards  of  Cardlrusso,  clearly  arose  to  her 
mind  the  remembrance  of  Saint  Apolllnare  and 
the  ass  and  the  keeper  of  the  herds.  She  felt  her 
blood  suddenly  surge  toward  her  heart.  That 
episode,  burled  with  her  youth,  now  revived  In  her 
memory  with  a  marvellous  clearness;  a  picture  of 
the  place  formed  itself  before  her  mind's  eye  and 
she  saw  again  the  man  with  the  hare -lip  and  again 
heard  his  voice,  while  experiencing  a  new  con- 
fusion without  knowing  why. 

As  they  approached  the  factory  the  wind  among 
the  trees  caused  the  mature  olives  to  fall  and  a 
patch  of  serene  sea  was  revealed  from  the  heights. 
Zacchiele  had  moved  to  the  side  of  the  woman 
and  was  looking  at  her  from  time  to  time  with  a 
pious  supplicating  tenderness.  "What  was  she 
thinking  of  now?"  Anna  turned  with  an  air  al- 
most of  fright,  as  if  she  had  been  caught  in  a  sin. 
"She  was  thinking  of  nothing."  They  arrived  at 
the  mill  where  the  farmers  were  crushing  the  first 
harvest   of  olives   fallen   prematurely   from   the 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  245 

trees.  The  room  for  the  crushing  was  low  and 
dimly  lighted;  from  the  celling  sparkling  with 
saltpetre  hung  lanterns  of  brass  which  smoked;  a 
cart-horse,  blindfolded,  turned  with  even  steps  an 
immense  mill-stone;  and  the  farmers,  clothed  In  a 
kind  of  long  tunic  similar  to  a  sack,  with  legs  and 
arms  bare,  muscular  and  oily,  were  pouring  the 
liquid  Into  jugs,  jars  and  vats. 

Anna  watched  the  work  attentively,  and  as 
Zacchiele  gave  orders  to  the  workers  and  wound 
In  and  out  among  the  machines,  observing  the 
quality  of  the  olives  with  great  decision  of  judg- 
ment, she  felt  her  admiration  for  him  increase. 
Later,  as  Zacchiele  standing  before  her  took  up  a 
great  brimful  pitcher  and  on  pouring  the  oil,  so 
pure  and  luminous.  Into  a  vat,  spoke  of  God^s 
abundance,  she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  quite 
overwhelmed  with  veneration  for  the  richness  of 
the  soil. 

There  came  at  length  to  the  door  two  women 
of  the  factory,  and  each  held  at  her  breast  a  nurs- 
ing child  and  dragged  at  her  skirts  a  luxuriant 
group  of  children.  They  fell  to  conversing  placid- 
ly, and,  while  Anna  tried  to  caress  the  children, 
each  talked  of  her  own  fertility,  and  with  an  hon- 
est frankness  of  speech  told  of  her  various  de- 
liverances.   The  first  had  had  seven  children;  the 


246         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

second  eleven.  It  was  the  will  of  Jesus  Christ, 
for  working  people  were  needed.  Then  the  con- 
versation turned  upon  familiar  matters.  Albarosa, 
one  of  the  mothers,  asked  Anna  many  questions. 
Had  she  never  had  any  children?  Anna,  in  an- 
swering that  she  was  not  married,  experienced 
for  the  first  time  a  kind  of  humiliation  and  grief, 
before  that  chaste  and  powerful  maternity.  Then, 
changing  the  subject  of  their  discourse,  she  rested 
her  hand  on  the  nearest  child.  The  others  looked 
on  with  wide-open  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  ac- 
quired a  limpid,  vegetable  colour  from  the  con- 
tinuous sight  of  green  things.  The  odour  of  the 
crushed  olives  floated  in  the  air,  penetrating  the 
throat  and  exciting  the  palate.  The  groups  of 
workers  appeared  and  disappeared  under  the  red 
light  of  the  lamps. 

Zacchiele,  who  up  to  that  moment  had  been 
watching  carefully  the  measuring  of  the  oil,  ap- 
proached the  women.  Albarosa  welcomed  him 
with  a  merry  expression.  "How  long  were  they 
to  wait  for  Don  Zacchiele  to  take  a  wife?" 
Zacchiele  smiled,  slightly  confused  by  this  question, 
and  gave  a  stealthy  glance  at  Anna  who  was  still 
caressing  the  rustic  child  and  feigning  not  to  have 
heard.  Albarosa,  through  a  kindly  pleasantry, 
characteristic  of  the  peasant,  embracing  Anna  and 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  247 

Zacchiele  significantly  with  a  wink  of  her  bovine 
eyes,  pursued  her  comment.  They  were  a  couple 
blessed  by  God.  Why  were  they  delaying?  The 
farmers,  having  suspended  their  work  to  attend 
to  their  meal,  made  a  circle  around  them.  The 
couple,  even  more  confused  by  these  witnesses,  re- 
mained silent  In  an  attitude  bordering  between 
tremulous  smiles  and  shame-faced  modesty.  One 
of  the  youths  among  the  onlookers.  Inspired  by  the 
affectionate  compunctions  in  the  face  of  Don 
Zacchiele,  nudged  his  companions  with  his  elbows. 
The  hungry  horse  neighed. 

The  meal  was  prepared.  A  strenuous  activity 
Invaded  the  large  rustic  family.  In  the  yard,  in 
the  open  air,  among  the  peaceful  olives  and  within 
sight  of  the  sea  beneath,  the  men  sat  at  their  meal. 
The  plates  of  vegetables,  seasoned  with  fresh  oil, 
smoked;  the  wine  scintillated  in  the  simple  vases 
of  liturgical  shape,  while  the  frugal  food  disap- 
peared rapidly  Into  the  stomachs  of  the  workers. 

Anna  now  felt  herself  filled  by  a  tumult  of  joy, 
and  she  seemed  suddenly  almost  united  by  a  kind 
of  friendly  domesticity  with  the  two  women.  They 
took  her  Into  their  houses  where  the  rooms  were 
large  and  light,  although  very  old.  On  the  walls 
sacred  Images  alternated  with  pasqual  palms; 
joints  of  pork  hung  from  the  rafters;  the  posts. 


248         TALES  GF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

ample  and  very  high,  rose  from  the  pavement 
with  cradles  beside  them;  from  all  emanated  the 
serenity  of  family  concord.  Anna,  beholding  these 
arrangements,  smiled  timidly  at  some  inward 
sweetness,  and  at  a  certain  point  was  seized  by  a 
strange  emotion,  almost  as  If  all  of  her  latent 
virtues  of  the  domestic  mother  and  her  Instincts 
to  succour  had  escaped  and  suddenly  risen  up. 

When  the  women  descended  again  to  the  yard, 
the  men  still  remained  around  the  table  and 
Zacchlele  was  talking  to  them.  Albarosa  took  a 
small  loaf  of  corn-bread,  divided  It  in  the  middle, 
spread  it  with  oil  and  salt,  and  offered  it  to  Anna. 
The  fresh  oil,  just  pressed  from  the  fruit,  diffused 
in  the  mouth  a  savoury,  sharp  aroma,  and  Anna, 
allured,  ate  all  of  the  bread.  She  even  drank  the 
wine.  Then  as  the  evening  was  falling,  she  and 
Zacchlele  began  the  descent  of  the  hill  on  their  re- 
turn. Behind  them  the  farmers  were  singing. 
Many  other  songs  arose  from  the  fields  and  per- 
vaded the  evening  air  with  the  soft  fullness  of  a 
Gregorian  chant.  The  wind  blew  molstly  through 
the  olive  trees,  a  dying  splendour  between  rose  and 
violet  suffused  the  sky.  Anna  walked  In  front 
with  swift  steps,  grazing  the  tree-trunks.  Zac- 
chlele called  the  woman  by  name;  she  turned  to 
him  humbly  and  palpitatingly.      "What  did  he 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  249 

wish?"  Zacchiele  said  no  more ;  he  took  two  steps 
and  arrived  at  her  side.  Thus  they  continued 
their  walk,  in  silence,  until  the  Salaria  road  no 
longer  divided  them.  As  in  going,  each  had  taken 
the  marginal  road,  on  the  right  and  left.  At 
length  they  re-entered  the  Portasale. 

Through  a  native  irresolution  Anna  continually 
deferred  her  matrimony.  Religious  doubts  tor- 
mented her.  She  had  heard  it  said  that  only 
virgins  would  be  admitted  to  the  circle  around 
the  mother  of  God  In  Paradise.  What  then? 
Must  she  renounce  that  celestial  sweetness  for  an 
earthly  blessing?  An  ardour  for  devotion  even 
more  compelling  seized  her.  In  all  of  her  un- 
occupied hours  she  went  to  the  church  of  the 
Rosario;  knelt  before  the  great  confessional  of 
oak  and  remained  motionless  in  the  attitude  of 
prayer.  The  church  was  simple  and  poor;  the 
pavement  was  covered  with  mortuary  stones  and 
a  single  shabby  metal  lamp  burned  before  the 
altar.  The  woman  mourned  Inwardly  for  the 
pomp  of  her  basilica,  the  solemnity  of  the  cere- 
monies, the  eleven  lamps  of  silver,  the  three  altars 
of  precious  marbles. 


250         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

But  in  Holy  Week  of  the  year  1857  a  great 
event  happened.  Between  the  Confraternity 
commanded  by  Don  Fileno  d'Amello  and  the 
Abbot  Cennamele,  who  was  aided  by  the  paroch- 
ial satellites,  broke  out  a  war;  and  the  cause  of  it 
was  a  dispute  about  the  procession  of  the  dead 
Jesus.  Don  Fileno  wished  this  ostentation,  fur- 
nished by  the  congregation,  to  issue  from  the 
parochial  church.  The  war  attracted  and 
enveloped  all  of  the  citizens  as  well  as  the  militia 
of  the  King  of  Naples,  residing  in  the  fortress. 
Popular  tumult  arose,  the  roads  were  occupied  by 
assemblies  of  fanatical  people,  armed  platoons 
went  around  to  suppress  disorders,  the  Archbishop 
of  Chletl  was  besieged  by  innumerable  messages 
from  both  parties;  much  money  for  corruption 
was  spent  everywhere  and  a  murmur  of  mysteri- 
ous plots  spread  throughout  the  city.  The  house 
of  Donna  Cristina  Basile  was  the  hearth  of  all 
the  dissensions.  Don  Flore  Ussorlo  shone  for 
his  wonderful  stratagems  and  his  boldness  in  these 
days  of  struggle.  Don  Paolo  Nervegna  had  a 
great  effusion  of  bile.  Don  Ignazio  Cespa  exer- 
cised, to  no  purpose,  all  of  his  conciliative  bland- 
ishments and  mellifluous  smiles.  The  victory  was 
fought  for  with  an  implacable  violence  up  to  the 
ritualistic  hour  for  the  funeral  ostentation.     The 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  251 

people  fermented  with  expectation;  the  captain  of 
the  militia,  a  partisan  of  the  abbey,  threatened 
punishment  to  the  Instigators  of  the  Confrater- 
nity. Revolt  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  forth. 
When,  lo,  there  arrived  at  the  square  a  mounted 
soldier,  bearer  of  an  episcopal  message,  that  gave 
the  victory  to  the  congregation. 

The  ostentation  then  passed  with  rare  mag- 
nificence through  the  streets  scattered  with  flow- 
ers. A  chorus  of  fifty  child  voices  sang  the  hymn 
of  the  Passion  and  ten  censers  filled  the  entire 
city  with  the  smell  of  Incense.  The  canopies,  the 
standards,  the  tapers,  which  made  up  this  new 
display,  filled  the  bystanders  with  wonder.  The 
Abbot,  although  discomfited,  did  not  Intervene, 
and  In  his  place  Don  Pasquale  Carabba,  the  Great 
Coadjutor,  clothed  In  ample  vestments,  followed 
with  much  solemnity  the  bier  of  Jesus. 

Anna,  during  the  contest,  had  made  offerings 
for  the  victory  of  the  Abbot.  But  the  sumptuous- 
ness  of  this  ceremony  blinded  her;  a  kind  of  rap- 
ture overcame  her  at  the  spectacle,  and  she  felt 
gratitude  even  toward  Don  Flore  Ussorlo,  who 
passed  bearing  in  his  hand  an  immense  taper. 
Then  as  the  last  band  of  celebrators  arrived  be- 
fore her,  she  mingled  with  the  fanatical  crowd  of 
men,  women  and  children  and  thus  moved  along 


252         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

as  if  scarcely  touching  the  earth,  while  always 
holding  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  surmounting  wreath 
of  the  Mater  Dolorosa.  On  high,  from  one  bal- 
cony to  another,  were  stretched,  consecutively, 
illustrious  flags;  from  the  houses  of  the  stewards 
hung  rude  figures  of  lambs  fashioned  from  corn, 
while  at  intervals,  where  three  or  four  streets  met, 
lighted  brasiers  spread  fumes  of  aromatics. 

The  procession  did  not  pass  under  the  windows 
of  the  Abbot.  From  time  to  time  a  kind  of  irreg- 
ular fluctuation  ran  the  length  of  the  line,  as  if 
the  band  of  standard-bearers  had  encountered  an 
obstacle.  The  cause  of  it  was  a  struggle  between 
the  bearer  of  the  Crucifix  of  the  Confraternity  and 
the  lieutenant  of  the  militia,  both  having  received 
the  command  to  follow  a  different  route.  Since 
the  lieutenant  could  not  use  violence  without  com- 
mitting sacrilege,  the  Crucifix  conquered.  The 
Congregation  exulted,  the  Commanding  General 
burned  with  wrath,  and  the  people  were  filled 
with  curiosity.  When  the  ostentation,  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  the  Arsenale,  turned  again  to  enter  the 
church  of  Saint  John,  Anna  took  an  oblique  path 
and  in  a  few  steps  reached  the  main  door.  She 
kneeled.  First  there  arrived  before  her  a  man 
bearing  the  enormous  cross,  while  the  standard- 
bearers  followed  him,  balancing  very  tall  banners 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  253 

on  their  foreheads  or  chins,  and  gesticulating  with 
a  clever  play  of  muscles.  Then,  almost  In  the 
centre  of  a  cloud  of  incense,  came  the  other  bands, 
the  angelic  choruses,  men  in  cassocks,  the  virgins, 
the  gentlemen,  the  clerics,  the  militias.  The  sight 
was  grand.  A  kind  of  mystic  terror  seized  the 
soul  of  the  woman. 

There  advanced  in  the  vestibule,  according  to 
custom,  an  acolyte  carrying  a  large  silver  plate  for 
receiving  tapers.  Anna  watched.  Then  it  was 
that  the  Commander,  crunching  between  his  teeth 
bitter  words  for  the  Confraternity,  threw  his 
taper  violently  upon  the  plate  and  turned  his  back 
with  a  threatening  shrug.  All  remained  dumb- 
founded. And  In  the  sudden  silence  one  heard 
the  clash  of  the  sword  of  the  officer  as  he  left  the 
church.  Don  Flore  Ussorlo  only  had  the  temerity 
to  smile. 


For  a  long  time  these  deeds  aroused  the  vocal 
activity  of  the  citizens  and  were  a  cause  for 
quarrels.  As  Anna  had  been  a  witness  of  the  last 
scene,  several  came  to  her  to  get  the  facts.  She 
recounted  her  story  with  patience,  and  always  In 
the  same  way.  Her  life  from  now  on  was  en- 
tirely expended  in   religious  practices,   domestic 


254        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

duties,  and  In  loving  ministrations  for  her  turtle. 
At  the  first  signs  of  spring,  It  awoke  from  Its  con- 
dition of  lethargy.  One  day,  unexpectedly.  It  un- 
sheathed from  Its  shield  the  serpentine  head  and 
swung  It  weakly,  while  its  feet  remained  in  torpor. 
The  little  eyes  were  half  covered  with  the  eye- 
lids. The  animal,  perhaps  no  longer  conscious  of 
being  a  captive,  pushed  by  the  need  to  find  food, 
as  In  the  sand  of  its  native  wood,  moved  at  length 
with  a  lazy  and  uncertain  effort,  while  feeling  the 
ground  with  its  feet. 

Anna,  In  the  presence  of  this  reawakening,  was 
filled  with  an  Ineffable  tenderness,  and  looked  on 
with  eyes  wet  with  tears.  Then  she  took  the  tur- 
tle, laid  It  upon  her  bed,  and  offered  It  some  green 
leaves.  The  turtle  hesitated  to  touch  the  leaves, 
and  In  opening  Its  jaws  showed  Its  fleshy  tongue, 
like  that  of  a  parrot.  The  covering  of  the  neck 
and  claws  seemed  to  be  the  flaccid  and  yellowish 
membrane  of  a  dead  body.  The  woman,  at  this 
sight,  felt  herself  overcome  with  a  great  tender- 
ness; and  to  restore  her  beloved  she  caressed  It 
as  would  a  mother  a  convalescent  child.  She 
greased  with  sweet  oil  the  bony  shield,  and  as  the 
sun  beat  down  upon  It  the  polished  sections  shone 
with  beauty. 

Among  such  cares  passed  the  months  of  spring. 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  255 

But  Zacchlele,  counselled  by  the  spring  season  to 
greater  pursuit  of  love,  beset  the  woman  with 
such  tender  supplications  that  he  had  at  last  from 
her  a  solemn  promise.  The  nuptials  should  be 
celebrated  the  day  preceding  the  nativity  of  Christ. 

Then  the  idyl  reblossomed.  While  Anna  at- 
tended to  her  needlework  for  her  trousseau,  Zac- 
chlele read  In  a  loud  voice  the  story  of  the  New 
Testament.  The  marriage  at  Cana,  the  miracles 
of  the  Redeemer,  the  dead  of  Nain,  the  multi- 
plication of  the  loaves  and  fishes,  the  liberation  of 
the  daughter  of  Calnan,  the  ten  lepers,  the  blind- 
born,  the  resurrection  of  the  Nazarene,  all  of 
those  miraculous  narrations  ravished  the  soul  of 
the  woman.  And  she  pondered  long  on  Jesus  who 
entered  into  Jerusalem  riding  on  an  ass,  while  the 
people  spread  in  His  path  their  garments  and 
waved  palms. 

In  the  room,  the  herb  of  thyme  shed  odour 
from  an  earthen  vase.  The  turtle  came  some- 
times to  the  seamstress  and  caught  in  its  mouth 
the  hem  of  the  cloth,  or  chewed  the  leather  of 
her  shoe.  One  day  Zacchlele,  while  reading  the 
parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  feeling  suddenly 
something  soft  under  his  feet,  through  an  involun- 
tary motion  of  fright,  gave  a  kick,  and  the  turtle, 
struck  against  the  wall,  fell  back  upside  down. 


256        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

Its  dorsal  shell  burst  in  many  places,  while  a  little 
blood  appeared  on  one  of  its  claws,  which  the  ani- 
mal waved  fruitlessly  in  an  effort  to  regain  its 
correct  position. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  unhappy  lover 
showed  himself  contrite  and  even  inconsolable, 
Anna,  after  that  day,  locked  herself  in  a  kind  of 
diffident  severity,  scarcely  spoke,  and  no  longer 
wished  to  hear  his  reading.  And  thus  the  Prodi- 
gal Son  was  left  forever  under  the  trees  with  the 
acorns  to  watch  his  master's  pigs. 


XI 

Zacchiele  lost  his  life  in  the  great  flood  of 
October,  1857.  The  dairy  farm  where  he 
lived,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Cappuccini 
Convent,  beyond  the  Porta-Giulia,  was  inundated 
by  the  flood.  The  waters  covered  the  entire  coun- 
try, from  the  hill  of  Orlando  to  the  hill  of  Castel- 
lammare;  and,  since  it  had  flown  over  vast  depos- 
its of  clay,  it  looked  bloody  as  in  the  ancient  fable. 
The  tops  of  the  trees  emerged  here  and  there  from 
this  blood,  so  miry  and  extensive.  At  intervals 
passed  enormous  trunks  of  trees  with  all  of  their 
roots,  furniture,  unrecognisable  materials,  groups 
of  beasts  not  yet  dead  who  bellowed  and  dis- 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  257 

appeared  and  then  reappeared  and  were  lost  sight 
of  in  the  distance.  The  droves  of  oxen,  especially, 
presented  a  wonderful  sight;  their  great  white 
bodies  pursued  one  another,  their  heads  reared 
desperately  from  out  the  water,  furious  interfac- 
ings of  horns  occurred  in  their  rushes  of  terror. 
As  the  sea  was  to  the  east,  the  waves  at  the  mouth 
of  the  river  overflowed  into  it.  The  salt  lake  of 
Palata  and  its  estuaries  also  joined  with  the  river. 
The  fort  became  a  lost  island.  Inland  the  roads 
were  submerged,  and  in  the  house  of  Donna  Cris- 
tina  the  water-line  reached  almost  half  way  up 
the  stairs.  The  tumult  increased  continuously, 
while  the  bells  sounded  clamorously.  The  pris- 
oners, within  their  prisons,  howled. 

Anna,  believing  in  some  supreme  chastisement 
from  the  Most  High,  took  recourse  in  prayers  for 
salvation.  The  second  day,  as  she  mounted  to  the 
top  of  the  pigeon-house,  she  saw  nothing  but 
water,  water  everywhere  under  the  clouds,  and 
later  observed,  terrified,  horses  galloping  madly 
on  the  ridge  of  San  Vitale.  She  descended,  dulled, 
with  her  mind  in  a  turmoil,  and  the  persistency  of 
the  noise  and  the  mists  of  the  air  blurred  in  her 
every  sense  of  place  and  time. 

When  the  flood  began  to  subside,  the  country 
people  entered  the  city  by  means  of  scows.    Men, 


258        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

women  and  children  carried  in  their  faces  and 
eyes  a  grievous  stupefaction.  All  narrated  sad 
stories.  And  a  ploughman  of  the  Cappuccini  came 
to  the  Basile  house  to  announce  that  Don  Zac- 
chiele  had  been  washed  out  to  sea.  The  plough- 
man spoke  simply  in  telling  of  the  death.  He 
said  that  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Cappuccini  certain 
women  had  bound  their  nursing  children  to  the 
top  of  an  enormous  tree  to  rescue  them  from  the 
waters  and  that  the  whirlpools  had  uprooted  the 
tree,  dragging  down  the  five  little  creatures.  Don 
Zacchiele  was  upon  a  roof  with  other  Christians 
in  a  compact  group,  and  as  the  roof  was  about  to 
be  submerged  the  corpses  of  animals  and  broken 
branches  beat  against  these  desperate  ones. 
When  at  length  the  tree  with  the  babies  passed 
over  them,  the  impact  was  so  terrible  that  after  its 
passage  there  was  no  longer  a  trace  of  roof  or 
Christians. 

Anna  listened  without  weeping,  and  in  her 
mind,  shaken  by  the  account  of  that  death,  by  that 
tree  with  its  five  infants,  and  those  men  all 
crouched  upon  the  roof  while  the  corpses  of  beasts 
beat  against  it,  sprang  up  a  kind  of  superstitious 
wonder  like  the  excitement  she  had  felt  in  hear- 
ing certain  stories  of  the  Old  Testament.  She 
mounted  slowly  to  her  room,  and  tried  to  com- 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  259 

pose  herself.  The  sun  shone  upon  her  window, 
and  the  turtle  slept  in  a  corner,  covered  with  his 
shield,  while  the  chattering  of  swallows  came 
from  the  tiles.  All  of  these  natural  things,  this 
customary  tranquillity  of  her  daily  life,  little  by 
little  comforted  her.  From  the  depths  of  that 
momentary  calm  at  length  her  grief  arose  clearly, 
and  she  bent  her  head  upon  her  breast  In  deep 
depression. 

Her  heart  was  stung  with  remorse  for  having 
preserved  against  Zacchiele  that  strange,  silent 
rancour  for  so  long  a  time ;  recollections  one  after 
another  came  to  mind,  and  the  virtues  of  her  lost 
lover  shone  more  brightly  than  ever  In  her  mem- 
ory. As  the  scourgings  of  her  grief  Increased,  she 
got  up,  went  to  her  bed,  and  there  stretched  her- 
self out  upon  her  face.  Her  weeping  mingled 
with  the  chattering  of  the  birds. 

Afterwards,  when  her  tears  were  dried,  the 
peace  of  resignation  began  to  descend  upon  her 
soul,  and  she  came  to  feel  that  everything  of  this 
earth  was  frail  and  that  we  ought  to  bend  our- 
selves to  the  will  of  God.  The  unction  of  this 
simple  act  of  consecration  spread  In  her  heart  a 
fulness  of  sweetness.  She  felt  herself  freed  from 
all  Inquietude,  and  found  repose  In  her  humble  but 
firm  faith.     From  now  on  In  her  law  there  was 


26o        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

but  this  one  clause :  The  sovereign  will  of  God, 
always  just,  always  adorable,  established  in  all 
things  praised  and  exalted  through  all  eternity. 


XII 

Thus  to  the  daughter  of  Luca  was  opened 
the  true  road  to  Paradise.  The  passing  of 
time  was  not  marked  by  her  except  in  ecclesiasti- 
cal occurrences.  When  the  river  re-entered  Its 
channel,  there  issued  in  consecutive  order  for 
many  days  processions  throughout  the  cities  and 
country.  She  followed  all  of  them,  together  with 
the  people,  singing  the  Te  Deum.  The  vine- 
yards everywhere  had  been  devastated;  the  earth 
was  soft  and  the  air  pregnant  with  white  vapours, 
singularly  luminous,  like  those  rising  from  the 
swamps  in  spring. 

Then  came  the  feast  of  All  Saints;  then  the 
solemnity  for  the  dead.  A  great  number  of 
masses  were  celebrated  for  the  assistance  of  the 
victims  of  the  flood.  At  Christmas  Anna  wished 
to  make  a  manger;  she  bought  a  Christ-child, 
Mary,  Saint  Joseph,  an  ox  and  an  ass,  wise  men, 
and  shepherds,  all  made  of  wax.  Accompanied 
by  the  daughter  of  the  sacristan  she  went  to  the 
ditches  of  the  Salaria  road  to  search  for  moss. 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  261 

Under  the  glassy  serenity  of  the  fields,  the  lands 
were  covered  with  lime,  the  factory  of  Albarosa 
appeared  on  the  hill  among  the  olives,  and  no 
voice  disturbed  the  silence.  Anna,  as  she  discov- 
ered the  moss,  bent  and  with  a  knife  cut  the  clod. 
On  contact  with  the  cold  verdure  her  hands  be- 
came violet  coloured.  From  time  to  time,  at  the 
sight  of  a  clod  greener  than  the  others,  there  es- 
caped from  her  an  exclamation  of  contentment. 
When  her  basket  was  full,  she  sat  down  upon  the 
edge  of  the  ditch  with  the  girl.  She  raised  her 
eyes  thoughtfully  and  slowly  to  the  olive-orchard, 
and  they  rested  upon  the  white  wall  of  the  factory 
that  resembled  a  cloisteral  edifice.  Then  she 
bowed  her  head,  tormented  by  her  thoughts. 
Later  she  turned  suddenly  to  her  companion — 
"Had  she  never  seen  the  olives  crushed!"  She 
began  to  picture  the  work  of  the  crushing  with 
voluble  speech;  and,  as  she  spoke,  little  by  little 
arose  in  her  mind  other  recollections  than  those 
she  was  describing,  and  they  showed  themselves 
in  her  voice  by  a  slight  trembling. 

That  was  the  last  weakness.  In  April  of  1858, 
shortly  after  Ascension  Day,  she  fell  sick.  She 
remained  in  bed  almost  a  month,  tormented  by  a 
pulmonary  Inflammation.  Donna  Cristlna  came 
morning  and  evening  to  her  room  to  visit  her.    An 


262        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOPFN 

aged  maid  servant  who  made  public  profession  of 
assisting  the  sick  gave  her  medicines  to  her.  Then 
the  turtle  cheered  the  days  of  her  convalescence. 
And  as  the  animal  was  emaciated  from  fasting, 
and  was  nothing  but  skin,  Anna,  seeing  him  so 
lean,  and  perceiving  herself  so  debilitated,  felt 
that  secret  satisfaction  that  we  experience  when 
we  suffer  the  same  pain  as  a  beloved  one.  A  mild 
tepidity  arose  from  the  tiles  covered  with  lichens, 
in  the  court  the  cocks  crew,  and  one  morning  two 
swallows  entered  suddenly,  flapped  their  wings 
about  the  room,  and  fled  away  again. 

When  Anna  returned  for  the  first  time  to  the 
church,  after  her  recovery.  It  was  the  festival  of 
roses.  On  entering  she  breathed  In  greedily  the 
perfume  of  Incense.  She  walked  softly  along  the 
nave.  In  order  to  find  the  spot  where  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  kneel,  and  she  felt  herself  seized 
with  a  sudden  joy  when  finally  she  discovered  be- 
tween the  mortuary  stories  that  one  which  bore  In 
its  centre  an  almost  effaced  bas-relief.  She 
knelt  upon  It,  and  fell  to  praying.  The  people 
multiplied.  At  a  certain  point  in  the  ceremony 
two  acolytes  descended  from  the  choir  with  two 
silver  basins  full  of  roses,  and  commenced  to  scat- 
ter the  flowers  upon  the  heads  of  the  prostrate 
ones,    while    the    organ   played   a    joyful   hymn. 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  263 

Anna  remained  bent  In  a  kind  of  ecstasy  that  gave 
her  the  blessedness  of  the  mystic  celebration  and 
a  vaguely  voluptuous  feeling  of  recovery.  When 
several  roses  happened  to  fall  upon  her,  she  gave 
a  long  sigh.  The  poor  woman  had  never  before 
in  her  life  experienced  anything  more  sweet  than 
that  sigh  of  mystic  delight  and  its  subsequent 
languor. 

The  Rose  Easter  remained  therefore  Anna's 
favourite  festival  and  it  returned  periodically 
without  any  noteworthy  episode.  In  i860  the  city 
was  disturbed  with  serious  agitations.  One  heard 
often  in  the  night  the  roll  of  drums,  the  alarms  of 
sentinels,  the  reports  of  muskets.  In  the  house 
of  Dona  Cristina  a  more  lively  fervour  for  action 
manifested  itself  among  the  five  suitors.  Anna 
was  not  frightened,  but  lived  In  profound  medita- 
tion, having  neither  a  realisation  of  public  events 
nor  of  domestic  wants,  fulfilling  her  duties  with 
machine-like  exactness. 

In  the  month  of  September  the  fortress  of 
Pescara  was  evacuated,  the  Bourbon  militia  dis- 
persed, their  arms  and  baggage  thrown  Into  the 
water  of  the  river,  while  bands  of  citizens  flocked 
through  the  streets  with  liberal  acclamations  of 
joy.  Anna,  when  she  heard  that  the  Abbot  Cen- 
namele  had  fled  precipitately,  thought  that  the 


264        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

enemies  of  the  Church  of  God  had  triumphed, 
and  was  greatly  grieved  at  this. 

After  this  her  life  unfolded  in  peace  for  a  long 
time.  The  shell  of  the  turtle  increased  in  breadth 
and  became  more  opaque;  the  tobacco  plant 
sprang  up  annually,  blossomed  and  fell;  the  wise 
swallows  every  autumn  departed  for  the  land  of 
the  Pharaohs.  In  1865  the  great  contest  of  the 
suitors  at  length  culminated  in  the  victory  of  Don 
Fileno  D'Amelio.  The  nuptials  were  celebrated 
in  the  month  of  March  with  banquets  of  solemn 
gaiety.  There  came  to  prepare  the  valuable  dishes 
two  Capuchin  fathers,  Fra  Vittorio  and  Fra 
Mansueto. 

They  were  the  two  who  after  the  suppression 
of  the  order  remained  to  guard  the  convent.  Fra 
Vittorio  was  a  sexagenary,  reddened,  strengthened 
and  made  happy  by  the  juice  of  the  grape.  A 
little  green  band  covered  an  infirmity  of  his  right 
eye,  while  the  left  scintillated,  full  of  a  penetrating 
liveliness.  He  had  exercised  from  his  youth  the 
art  of  drugs,  and,  as  he  had  much  skill  in  the 
kitchen,  gentlemen  were  accustomed  to  summon 
him  on  occasions  of  festivity.  At  work  he  used 
rough  gestures  that  revealed  in  the  ample  sleeves 
his  hairy  arms,  his  whole  beard  moved  with  every 
motion  of  his  mouth  and  his  voice  broke  into  shrill 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  265 

cries.  Fra  Mansueto,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  lean 
old  man  with  a  great  head  and  on  his  chin  a 
goatee.  He  had  two  yellowish  eyes  full  of  sub- 
mission. He  cultivated  the  soil  and  going  from 
door  to  door  carried  eatable  herbs  to  the  houses. 
In  serving  a  company  he  took  a  modest  position, 
limped  on  one  foot,  spoke  in  the  soft  idiomatic 
patois  of  Ortona,  and,  perhaps  in  memory  of  the 
legend  of  Saint  Thomas,  exclaimed,  *'For  the 
Turks!'*  every  little  while  stroking  his  polished 
head  with  his  hand. 

Anna  attended  to  the  placing  of  the  plates,  the 
kitchen  ware  and  the  coppers.  It  seemed  to  her 
now  that  the  kitchen  had  assumed  a  kind  of  secret 
solemnity  through  the  presence  of  the  brothers. 
She  remained  to  watch  attentively  all  of  the  acts 
of  Fra  Vittorio,  seized  with  that  trepidation  that 
all  simple  people  feel  in  the  presence  of  men 
gifted  with  some  superior  virtue.  She  admired 
especially  the  infallable  gesture  with  which  the 
great  Capuchin  scattered  upon  the  dishes  cer- 
tain secret  drugs  of  his,  certain  particular  aromas 
known  only  to  him.  But  the  humility,  the  mild- 
ness, the  modest  jokes  of  Fra  Mansueto  little  by 
little  made  a  conquest  of  her.  And  the  bonds  of  a 
common  country  and  the  still  stronger  ones  of  a 
common  dialect  cemented  their  friendship. 


266        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

As  they  conversed,  recollections  of  the  past 
germinated  In  their  speech.  Fra  Mansueto  had 
known  Luca  Mlnella  and  he  was  in  the  basilica 
when  the  death  of  Francesca  Nobile  had  hap- 
pened among  the  pilgrims.  "For  the  Turks!" 
He  had  even  helped  to  carry  the  corpse  up  to  the 
house  at  the  Porta-Caldara,  and  he  remembered 
that  the  dead  woman  wore  a  waist  of  yellow  silk 
and  many  chains  of  gold.  .  .  . 

Anna  grew  sad.  In  her  memory  this  matter 
up  to  that  moment  had  remained  confused,  vague, 
almost  uncertain,  dimmed  by  the  very  long  Inert 
stupor  that  had  followed  her  first  paroxysms  of 
epilepsy.  But  when  Fra  Mansueto  said  that  her 
mother  was  in  Paradise  because  those  who  die  in 
the  cause  of  religion  dwell  among  the  saints,  Anna 
experienced  an  unspeakable  sweetness  and  felt 
suddenly  surge  up  in  her  soul  an  immense  adora- 
tion for  the  sanctity  of  her  mother. 

Then,  remembering  the  places  of  her  native 
country,  she  began  to  discourse  minutely  on  the 
Church  of  the  Apostle,  mentioning  the  shapes  of 
the  altars,  the  position  of  the  Chapels,  the  num- 
ber of  the  ornaments,  the  shape  of  the  cupola, 
the  positions  of  the  Images,  the  divisions  of  the 
pavement  and  the  colours  of  the  windows.  Fra 
Mansueto  followed  her  with  benignity;  and,  since 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  267 

he  had  been  in  Ortona  several  months  before,  re- 
counted the  new  things  seen  there.  The  Arch- 
bishop of  Orsogna  had  given  the  Church  a  pre- 
cious vase  of  gold  with  settings  of  precious  stones. 
The  Confraternity  of  the  Holy  Sacrament  had 
renovated  all  the  wood  and  leather  of  the  stoles. 
Donna  Blandina  Onofrii  had  furnished  an  entire 
change  of  apparel,  consisting  in  Dalmatian 
chasubles,  stoles,  sacerdotal  cloaks  and  surplices. 
Anna  listened  greedily,  and  the  desire  to  see 
these  new  things  and  to  see  again  the  old  ones 
began  to  torment  her.  When  the  Capuchin  was 
silent  she  turned  to  him  with  an  air  half  of  pleas- 
ure, half  of  timidity.  The  May  feast  was  draw- 
ing near.    Should  they  go  ? 

XIII 

During  the  last  days  of  May,  Anna,  having 
had  permission  from  Donna  Cristina,  made  her 
preparations.  She  felt  anxious  about  the  turtle. 
Ought  she  to  leave  it  or  carry  it  with  her?  She 
remained  a  long  time  in  doubt  but  at  length  de- 
cided to  carry  it  for  security.  She  put  it  in  a 
basket  with  her  clothes  and  the  boxes  of  con- 
fection which  Donna  Cristina  was  sending  to 
Donna  Veronica  Monteferrante,  Abbess  of  the 


268        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

monastery  of  Santa  Caterina.  At  dawn  Anna  and 
Fra  Mansueto  set  out.  Anna  had  from  the  first 
a  nimble  step  and  a  gay  aspect;  her  hair,  already 
almost  entirely  grey,  lay  In  shining  folds  beneath 
her  handkerchief.  The  brother  limped,  support- 
ing himself  with  a  stick,  and  an  empty  knapsack 
swung  from  his  shoulders.  When  they  reached 
the  wood  of  pines,  they  made  their  first  halt. 

The  trees  in  the  May  morning,  immersed  in 
their  native  perfume,  swayed  voluptuously  be- 
tween the  serenity  of  the  sky  and  that  of  the  sea. 
The  trunks  wept  resin.  The  blackbirds  whistled. 
All  the  fountains  of  life  seemed  open  for  the 
transfiguration  of  the  earth. 

Anna  sat  down  upon  the  grass,  offered  the 
monk  bread  and  fruit,  and  began  to  talk  about 
the  festivity,  eating  at  Intervals.  The  turtle  tried 
with  its  two  foremost  legs  to  reach  the  edge  of  the 
basket,  and  Its  timid  serpent-like  head  projected 
and  withdrew  in  its  efforts.  Then,  when  Anna 
took  It  out,  the  beast  began  to  advance  on  the  moss 
toward  a  bush  of  myrtle,  with  less  slowness,  per- 
haps feeling  the  joy  of  Its  primitive  liberty  arise 
confusedly  In  it.  Its  shell  amongst^  the  green 
looked  more  beautiful.  Fra  Mansueto  made 
several  moral  reflections  and  praised  Providence 
that  gives  to  the  turtle  a  house,  and  sleep  during 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  269 

the  winter  season.  Anna  recounted  several  facts 
which  demonstrated  great  frankness  and  rectitude 
In  the  turtle.  Then  she  added,  "What  are  the 
animals  thinking  of?" 

The  brother  did  not  answer.  Both  remained 
perplexed.  There  descended  from  the  bark  of  a 
pine  a  file  of  ants  and  they  extended  themselves 
across  the  ground,  each  ant  dragged  a  fragment  of 
food  and  the  entire  innumerable  family  fulfilled 
Its  work  with  diligent  precision.  Anna  watched, 
and  there  awoke  In  her  mind  the  Ingenuous  beliefs 
of  her  childhood.  She  spoke  of  wonderful  dwell- 
ings that  the  ants  excavated  beneath  the  earth. 
The  brother  replied  with  an  accent  of  intense 
faith,  *'God  be  praised!"  And  both  remained 
pensive,  beneath  the  greatness,  while  worshipping 
God  in  their  hearts. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  evening  they  arrived 
In  the  country  of  Ortona.  Anna  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  monastery  and  asked  to  see  the  abbess. 
On  entering  they  saw  a  little  court  paved  with 
black  and  white  stone  with  a  cistern  In  the  centre. 
The  reception  parlour  was  a  low  room,  with  a  few 
chairs  around  It;  two  walls  were  occupied  by  a 
grating,  the  other  two  by  a  crucifix  and  Images. 
Anna  was  Immediately  seized  by  a  feeling  of  ven- 
eration for  the  solemn  peace  that  reigned  in  this 


270        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

spot.  When  the  Mother  Veronica  appeared  un- 
expectedly  behind  the  grating,  tall  and  severe  in 
her  monastic  habit,  Anna  experienced  an  unspeak- 
able confusion  as  if  In  the  presence  of  a  super- 
natural apparition.  Then,  reassured  by  the  kind 
smile  of  the  abbess,  she  delivered  her  message 
briefly,  placed  her  boxes  In  the  cavity  of  the  turn- 
stile and  waited.  The  Mother  Veronica  moved 
about  her  benignly,  watching  her  with  her  beauti- 
ful lion-like  eyes;  she  gave  her  an  effigy  of  the 
Virgin,  and  in  taking  leave  she  extended  her  illus- 
trious hand  to  be  kissed  through  the  grating,  and 
disappeared. 

Anna  went  out  full  of  trepidation.  As  she 
passed  the  vestibule,  there  reached  her  ears  a 
chorus  of  litanies,  a  song,  very  regular  and  sweet, 
which  came  perhaps  from  some  subterranean 
chapel.  When  she  passed  through  the  court  she 
saw  on  the  left,  at  the  top  of  the  wall,  a  branch 
loaded  with  oranges.  And,  as  she  set  foot  again 
on  the  road,  she  seemed  to  have  left  behind  her 
a  garden  of  blessedness. 

Then  she  turned  toward  the  eastern  road  in 
order  to  search  for  her  relations.  At  the  door  of 
the  old  house  an  unknown  woman  stood  leaning 
against  the  door-post.  Anna  approached  her 
timidly  and  asked  news  of  the  family  of  Francesca 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  271 

Nobile.  The  woman  interrupted  her:  "Why? 
Why?  What  did  she  want?" — with  a  voice  and 
an  investigating  expression.  Then,  when  Anna 
recalled  herself,  she  permitted  her  to  enter. 

The  relations  had  almost  all  died  or  emigrated. 
There  remained  in  the  house  an  old,  rich  man. 
Uncle  Mingo,  who  had  taken  for  his  second  wife 
"the  daughter  of  Sblendore"  and  lived  with  her 
almost  in  misery.  The  old  man  at  first  did  not 
recognise  Anna.  He  was  seated  upon  an  old 
ecclesiastical  chair,  whose  red  material  hung  in 
shreds;  his  hands  rested  on  the  arms,  contorted 
and  rendered  enormous  through  the  monstrosity 
of  gout,  his  feet  with  rhythmic  movements  beat 
the  earth,  while  a  continuous  paralytic  trembling 
agitated  the  muscles  of  his  neck,  elbows  and  knees. 
As  he  gazed  at  Anna  he  held  open  with  difficulty 
his  Inflamed  eyelids.  At  length  he  remembered 
her. 

As  Anna  proceeded  to  explain  her  own  experi- 
ences, the  daughter  of  Sblendore,  sniffing  money, 
began  to  conceive  In  her  mind  hopes  of  usurpation, 
and  by  virtue  of  these  hopes  became  more  benign 
in  her  expression.  Annans  tale  was  scarcely  told 
when  she  offered  her  hospitality  for  the  night, 
took  her  basket  of  clothes  and  laid  it  down,  prom- 
ised to  take  care  of  her  turtle  and  then  made  sev- 


272         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

eral  complaints,  not  without  tears,  about  the  in- 
firmity of  the  old  man  and  the  misery  of  their 
house.  Anna  went  out  with  her  soul  full  of  pity; 
she  went  up  the  coast  toward  the  belfry  of  the 
church,  feehng  anxious  on  approaching  it. 

Around  the  Farnese  palace  the  people  surged 
like  billows;  and  that  great  feudal  relic  orna- 
mented with  figures,  magnificent  in  the  sunlight, 
was  most  conspicuous.  Anna  passed  through  the 
crowd,  alongside  of  the  benches  of  the  silver- 
smiths who  made  sacred  apparel  and  native  ob- 
jects. At  all  of  that  scintillating  display  of 
liturgical  forms  her  heart  dilated  with  joy  and 
she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  before  each  bench 
as  before  an  altar.  When  at  night  she  reached 
the  door  of  the  church  and  heard  the  canticle  of 
the  ritual,  she  could  no  longer  contain  her  joy 
as  she  advanced  as  far  as  the  pulpit,  with  steps 
almost  vacillating.  Her  knees  bent  beneath  her 
and  the  tears  welled  up  In  her  eyes.  She  remained 
there  In  contemplation  of  the  candelabras,  the 
ostensories,  of  all  those  objects  on  the  altar,  her 
mind  dizzy  from  having  eaten  nothing  since  morn- 
ing. An  Immense  weakness  seized  her  nerves  and 
her  soul  shrank  to  the  point  of  annihilation. 
Above  her,  along  the  central  nave,  the  glass  lamps 
formed  a  triple  crown  of  fire.     In  the  distance, 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  273 

four  solid  trunks  of  wax  flamed  at  the  sides  of 
the  tabernacle. 

XIV 

The  five  days  of  the  festival  Anna  lived  thus 
within  the  church  from  early  morning  until  the 
hour  at  which  the  doors  were  closed — most  faith- 
fully she  breathed  In  that  warm  air  which  Im- 
planted In  her  senses  a  blissful  torpor,  in  her  soul 
a  joy,  full  of  humility.  The  orations,  the  genuflec- 
tions, the  salutations,  all  of  those  formulas,  all 
of  those  ritualistic  gestures  incessantly  repeated, 
dulled  her  senses.  The  fumes  of  the  Incense  hid 
the  earth  from  her. 

Rosaria,  the  daughter  of  Sblendore,  meanwhile 
profited  by  moving  her  to  pity  with  lying  com- 
plaints and  by  the  miserable  spectacle  of  the 
paralytic  old  man.  She  was  an  unprincipled 
woman,  expert  In  fraud  and  dedicated  to  debauch- 
ery; her  entire  face  was  covered  with  blisters, 
red  and  serpentlRC,  her  hair  grey,  her  stomach 
obese.  Bound  to  the  paralytic  by  vices  common 
to  both  and  by  marriage,  she  and  he  had  squan- 
dered In  a  short  time  their  substance  in  guzzling 
and  merry-making.  Both  in  their  misery, 
venomous  from  privation,  burning  with  thirst  for 
wine  and  liquor,  harassed  by  the  infirmities  of 


274        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

decrepitude,  were  now  expiating  their  prolonged 
sinning. 

Anna,  with  a  spontaneous  impulse  for  charity, 
gave  to  Rosaria  all  her  money  kept  for  alms- 
giving and  her  superfluous  clothes  as  well  as  her 
earrings,  two  gold  rings  and  her  coral  necklace 
and  she  promised  still  further  support.  At  length 
she  retraced  the  road  to  Pescara,  in  company  with 
Fra  Mansueto,  and  bearing  the  turtle  in  her 
basket. 

During  their  walk,  as  the  houses  of  Ortona 
withdrew  into  the  distance,  a  great  sadness  de- 
scended upon  the  soul  of  the  woman.  Crowds  of 
singing  pilgrims  were  passing  in  other  directions, 
and  their  songs,  monotonous  and  slow,  re- 
mained a  long  while  in  the  air.  Anna  listened  to 
them;  an  overwhelming  desire  drew  her  to  join 
them,  to  follow  them,  to  live  thus,  making  pil- 
grimages from  sanctuary  to  sanctuary,  from  coun- 
try to  country,  in  order  to  exalt  the  miracles  of 
every  saint,  the  virtues  of  every  relic,  the  bounty 
of  every  Mary. 

"They  go  to  Cucullo,"  Fra  Mansueto  said, 
pointing  with  his  arm  to  some  distant  country. 
And  both  began  to  talk  of  Saint  Domenico,  who 
protected  the  men  from  the  bite  of  serpents  and 
the  seed  from  caterpillars;  then  they  spoke  of 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  275 

the  patron  saints.  At  Bugnara,  on  the  bridge  of 
Rivo,  more  than  a  hundred  cart-houses,  among 
horses  and  mules,  laden  with  fruit,  were  going  In 
a  procession  to  the  Madonna  of  the  Snow.  The 
devotees  rode  on  their  chargers,  with  sprigs  of 
spikenard  on  their  heads,  with  strings  of  dough 
on  their  shoulders,  and  they  laid  at  the  feet  of  the 
Image  their  cereal  gifts.  At  BIsentI,  many  youths, 
with  baskets  of  grain  on  their  heads,  were  con- 
ducting along  the  roads  an  ass  that  carried  on  Its 
back  a  larger  basket,  and  they  entered  the  Church 
of  the  Madonna  of  the  Angels,  to  offer  them  up, 
while  singing.  At  Torrlcella  Pellgna,  men  and 
children,  crowned  with  roses  and  garlands  of 
roses,  went  up  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Madonna 
of  the  Roses,  situated  upon  a  cliff  where  was  the 
foot-prints  of  Samson.  At  Loreto  Apentino  a 
white  ox,  fattened  during  the  year  with  abundance 
of  pasturage,  moved  In  pomp  behind  the  statue 
of  Saint  Zoplto.  A  red  drapery  covered  him  and 
a  child  rode  upon  him.  As  the  sacred  ox  entered 
the  church,  he  gave  forth  the  excrescence  of  his 
food  and  the  devotees  from  this  smoking  material 
presaged  future  agriculture. 

Of  such  religious  usages  Anna  and  Fra 
Mansueto  were  speaking,  when  they  reached  the 
mouth  of  the  Alento.     The  Channel  carried  the 


276        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

water  of  spring  between  the  green  foliage  not 
yet  flowered.  And  the  Capuchin  spoke  of  the 
Madonna  of  the  Incoronati,  where  for  the  festival 
of  Saint  John  the  devotees  wreath  their  heads 
with  vines,  and  during  the  night  go  with  great  re- 
joicing to  the  River  Gizio  to  bathe. 

Anna  removed  her  shoes  in  order  to  ford  the 
river.  She  felt  now  in  her  soul  an  immense  and 
loving  veneration  for  everything,  for  the  trees, 
the  grass,  the  animals,  for  all  that  those  Catholic 
customs  had  sanctified.  Thus  from  the  depths  of 
her  ignorance  and  simplicity  arose  the  instinct  of 
idolatry. 

Several  months  after  her  return,  an  epidemic 
of  cholera  broke  out  in  the  country,  and  the 
mortality  was  great.  Anna  lent  her  services  to 
the  poor  sick  ones.  Fra  Mansueto  died.  Anna 
felt  much  grief  at  this.  In  the  year  1866,  at  the 
recurrence  of  the  festival,  she  wished  to  take  leave 
and  return  to  her  native  place  forever,  because 
she  saw  in  her  sleep  every  night  Saint  Thomas 
who  commanded  her  to  depart.  So  she  took  the 
turtle,  her  clothes  and  her  savings,  weeping  she 
kissed  the  hand  of  Donna  Cristina,  and  departed 
upon  a  cart,  together  with  two  begging  nuns. 

At  Ortona  she  dwelt  In  the  house  of  her 
paralytic  uncle.    She  slept  upon  a  straw  pallet  and 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  277 

ate  nothing  but  bread  and  vegetables.  She  dedi- 
cated every  hour  of  the  day  to  the  practices  of 
the  Church,  with  a  marvellous  fervour,  and  her 
mind  gradually  lost  all  ability  to  do  anything  save 
contemplate  Christian  mysteries,  adore  symbols 
and  imagine  Paradise.  She  was  completely  ab- 
sorbed with  divine  charity,  completely  encom- 
passed with  that  divine  passion  which  the  sacer- 
dotals  manifest  always  with  the  same  signs  and 
the  same  words.  She  comprehended  but  that  one 
single  language;  had  but  that  one  single  refuge, 
sweet  and  solemn,  where  her  whole  heart  dilated 
in  a  pious  security  of  peace  and  where  her  eyes 
moistened  with  an  ineffable  sweetness  of  tears. 

She  suffered,  for  the  love  of  Jesus,  domestic 
miseries,  was  gentle  and  submissive  and  never 
proffered  a  lament,  a  reproof,  or  a  threat. 
Rosaria  extracted  from  her  little  by  little  all  of 
her  savings,  and  commenced  then  to  let  her  go 
hungry,  to  overtax  her,  to  call  her  vicious  names 
and  to  persecute  the  turtle  with  fierce  Insistency. 
The  old  paralytic  gave  forth  continuously  a 
species  of  hoarse  howls,  opening  his  mouth  where 
the  tongue  trembled  and  from  which  dripped  con- 
tinually quantities  of  saliva.  One  day,  because 
his  greedy  wife  swallowed  before  him  some  liquor 
and  denied  him  a  drink,  escaping  with  the  glass. 


278        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

he  arose  from  his  chair  with  an  effort  and  began 
to  walk  toward  her,  his  legs  wavering,  his  feet 
striking  the  ground  with  an  involuntary  rhythmic 
stroke.  Suddenly  he  moved  faster,  his  trunk  bent 
forward,  while  hopping  with  short  pursuing  steps, 
as  If  pushed  by  an  Irresistible  impulse,  until  at 
length  he  fell  face  downward  upon  the  edge  of  the 
stairs. 

XV 

Then  Anna,  in  distress,  took  the  turtle  and  went 
to  ask  succour  of  Donna  Veronica  Monteferrante. 
As  the  poor  woman  had  already  done  several 
services  for  the  monastery,  the  Abbess,  pitying 
her,  gave  her  work  as  a  serving-nun. 

Anna,  though  she  had  not  taken  the  orders, 
dressed  in  the  nun's  costume :  the  black  tunic,  the 
throat-bands,  the  head-dress  with  Its  ample  white 
brims.  She  seemed  to  herself.  In  that  habit,  to 
be  sanctified.  And  at  first,  when  the  air  flapped 
the  brims  around  her  head  with  a  noise  as  of 
wings,  she  shuddered  with  a  sudden  confusion  in 
her  veins.  Also  when  the  brims  struck  by  the  sun 
reflected  on  her  face  the  colour  of  snow,  she  sud- 
denly felt  herself  illuminated  by  a  mystic  ray. 

With  the  passing  of  time,  her  ecstasies  became 
more    frequent.      The    grey-haired    virgin    was 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  279 

thrilled  from  time  to  time  by  angelic  songs,  by 
distant  echoes  of  organs,  by  rumours  and  voices 
not  perceptible  to  other  ears.  Luminous  figures 
presented  themselves  to  her  in  the  darkness, 
odours  of  Paradise  carried  her  out  of  herself. 

Thus  a  kind  of  sacred  horror  began  to  spread 
through  the  monastery  as  if  through  the  presence 
of  some  occult  power,  as  if  through  the  imminence 
of  some  supernatural  event.  As  a  precaution  the 
new  convert  was  released  from  every  obligation 
pertaining  to  servile  work.  All  of  her  positions, 
all  of  her  words,  all  of  her  glances  were  observed 
and  commented  upon  with  superstition.  And  the 
legend  of  her  sanctity  began  to  flower. 

On  the  first  of  February  in  the  year  of  Our 
Lord  1873,  *h^  voice  of  the  virgin  Anna  be- 
came singularly  hoarse  and  deep.  Later  her 
power  of  speech  suddenly  disappeared.  This  un- 
expected dumbness  terrified  the  minds  of  the  nuns. 
And  all,  standing  around  the  convert,  considered 
with  mystic  terror  her  ecstatic  postures,  the  vague 
motions  of  her  mute  mouth  and  the  immobility 
of  her  eyes  from  which  overflowed  at  intervals 
inundations  of  tears.  The  lineaments  of  the  sick 
woman,  extenuated  by  long  fastings,  had  now  as- 
sumed a  purity  almost  of  ivory,  while  the  entire 
outlines  of  her  arteries  now  seemed  to  be  visible, 


28o         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

and  projected  in  such  strong  relief  and  palpitated 
so  incessantly,  that  before  that  open  palpitation 
of  blood  a  kind  of  dread  seized  the  nuns,  as  if 
they  were  viewing  a  body  stripped  of  its  skin. 

When  the  month  of  Mary  drew  near,  a  loving 
diligence  prompted  the  Benedictines  to  the  prepa- 
ration of  an  oratory.  They  scattered  throughout 
the  cloisteral  garden,  all  flowering  with  roses  and 
fruitful  with  oranges,  while  they  gathered  the 
harvest  of  early  May  in  order  to  lay  it  at  the 
foot  of  the  altar.  Anna  having  recovered  her 
usual  state  of  calmness,  descended  likewise  to 
help  at  the  pious  work.  She  conveyed  often  with 
gestures  the  thoughts  which  her  obstinate  mute- 
ness forbade  her  to  express.  All  of  the  brides  of 
Our  Lord  lingered  in  the  sun,  walking  among  the 
fountains  luxuriant  with  perfume.  There  was  on 
one  side  of  the  garden  a  door,  and  as  in  the  souls 
of  the  virgins  the  perfumes  awoke  suppressed 
thought,  so  the  sun  in  penetrating  beneath  the 
two  arches  revived  in  the  plaster  the  residue  of 
Byzantine  gold. 

The  oratory  was  ready  for  the  day  of  the  first 
prayer.  The  ceremony  began  after  the  Vespers. 
A  sister  mounted  to  the  organ.  Presently  from 
the  keys  the  cry  of  the  Passion  penetrated  every- 
where, all  foreheads  bowed,  the  censers  gave  out 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  281 

the  fumes  of  jasmine  and  the  flames  of  the  tapers 
palpitated  among  crowns  of  flowers.  Then  arose 
the  canticles,  the  litanies  full  of  symbolic  appella- 
tions and  supplicating  tenderness.  As  the  voices 
mounted  with  increasing  strength,  Anna,  impelled 
by  the  immense  force  of  her  fervour,  screamed. 
Struck  with  wonder,  she  fell  supine,  agitating  her 
arms  and  trying  to  arise.  The  litanies  stopped. 
The  sisters,  several  almost  terrified,  had  remained 
an  instant  immobile  while  others  gave  assistance 
to  the  sick  woman.  The  miracle  seemed  to  them 
most  unexpected,  brilliant  and  supreme. 

Then,  little  by  little,  stupor,  uncertain  murmurs 
and  vacillation  were  succeeded  by  a  rejoicing  with- 
out limit,  a  chorus  of  clamorous  exaltations  and  a 
mingled  drowsiness  as  of  inebriety.  Anna,  on  her 
knees,  still  absorbed  in  the  rapture  of  the  miracle, 
was  not  conscious  of  what  was  happening  around 
her.  But  when  the  canticles  with  greater  vehe- 
mence were  begun  again,  she  sang  too.  Her  notes 
from  the  descending  waves  of  the  chorus,  at  inter- 
vals emerged,  since  the  devotees  diminished  the 
force  of  their  voices  in  order  to  hear  that  one 
which  by  divine  grace  had  been  restored.  And  the 
Virgin  became  from  time  to  time  the  censer  of 
gold  from  which  they  exhaled  sweet  balsam,  she 
was  the  lamp  that  by  day  and  night  lighted  the 


282         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

sanctuary,  the  urn  that  enclosed  the  manna  from 
heaven,  the  flame  that  burned  without  consuming, 
the  stem  of  Jesse  that  bore  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  flowers. 

Afterwards  the  fame  of  the  miracle  spread 
from  the  monastery  throughout  the  entire  coun- 
try of  Ortona  and  from  the  country  to  all  ad- 
joining lands,  growing  as  it  travelled.  And  the 
monastery  rose  to  great  respect.  Donna  Blandina 
Onofrii,  the  magnificent,  presented  to  the  Ma- 
donna of  the  Oratorio  a  vest  of  brocaded  silver 
and  a  rare  necklace  of  turquoise  came  from  the 
island  of  Smyrna.  The  other  Ortosian  ladies 
gave  other  minor  gifts.  The  Archbishop  of 
Orsagna  made  with  pomp  a  congratulatory  visit, 
in  which  he  exchanged  words  of  eloquence  with 
Anna,  who  "from  the  purity  of  her  life  had  been 
rendered  worthy  of  celestial  gifts." 

In  August  of  the  year  1876  new  prodigies  ar- 
rived. The  infirm  woman,  when  she  approached 
vespers,  fell  in  a  state  of  cataleptic  ecstasy;  from 
which  she  arose  later  almost  with  violence.  On 
her  feet,  while  preserving  always  the  same  posi- 
tion, she  began  to  talk,  at  first  slowly  and  then 
gradually  accelerating,  as  if  beneath  the  urgency 
of  a  mystic  inspiration.  Her  eloquence  was  but  a 
tumultuous  medley  of  words,  of  phrases,  of  entire 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  283 

selections  learned  before,  which  now  in  her  un- 
consciousness reproduced  themselves,  growing 
fragmentary  or  combining  without  sequence. 

She  repeated  native  dialectic  expressions 
mingled  with  courtly  forms,  and  with  the  hyper- 
boles of  Biblical  language  as  well  as  extraordinary 
conjunctions  of  syllables  and  scarcely  audible  har- 
monies of  songs.  But  the  profound  trembling  of 
her  voice,  the  sudden  changes  of  inflection,  the 
alternate  ascending  and  descending  of  the  tone, 
the  spirituality  of  the  ecstatic  figure,  the  mystery 
of  the  hour,  all  helped  to  make  a  profound  im- 
pression upon  the  onlookers. 

These  effects  repeated  themselves  daily,  with  a 
periodic  regularity.  At  vespers  in  the  oratorio 
they  lit  the  lamps;  the  nuns  made  a  kneeling  circle, 
and  the  sacred  representation  began.  As  the  in- 
firm woman  entered  into  the  cataleptic  ecstasies, 
vague  preludes  on  the  organ  lifted  the  souls  of  the 
worshippers  to  a  higher  sphere.  The  light  of  the 
lamps  was  diffused  on  high,  giving  forth  an  un- 
certain flicker,  and  a  fading  sweetness  to  the  ap- 
pearance of  things.  At  a  certain  point  the  organ 
was  silent.  The  respiration  of  the  infirm  wom.an 
became  deeper,  her  arms  were  stretched  so  that  in 
the  emaciated  wrists  the  tendons  vibrated  like  the 
strings  of  an  instrument.    Then  suddenly,  the  sick 


284         TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOWN 

woman  bounded  to  her  feet,  crossed  her  arms  on 
her  breast,  while  resting  in  the  position  of  the 
Caryatides  of  a  Baptistery.  Her  voice  resounded 
in  the  silence,  now  sweetly,  now  lugubriously,  now 
placid,  almost  always  incomprehensible. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1877  these 
paroxysms  diminished  in  frequency,  they  occurred 
two  or  three  times  a  week  and  then  totally  dis- 
appeared, leaving  the  body  of  the  woman  in  a 
miserable  state  of  weakness.  Then  several  years 
passed,  in  which  the  poor  idiot  lived  in  atrocious 
suffering,  with  her  limbs  rendered  inert  from 
muscular  spasms.  She  was  no  longer  able  to  keep 
herself  clean,  she  ate  only  soft  bread  and  a  few 
herbs  and  wore  around  her  neck  and  on  her  breast 
a  large  quantity  of  little  crosses,  relics  and  other 
images.  She  spoke  stutteringly  through  lack  of 
teeth  and  her  hair  fell  out,  her  eyes  were  already 
glazed  like  those  of  an  old  beast  of  burden  about 
to  die. 

One  time,  in  May,  while  she  was  suffering,  de- 
posited under  the  portal,  and  the  sisters  were 
gathering  the  roses  for  Maria,  there  passed  be- 
fore her  the  turtle  which  still  dragged  its  pacific 
and  innocent  life  through  the  cloisteral  garden. 
The  old  woman  saw  it  move  and  little  by  little 
recede.    It  awakened  no  recollection  in  her  mind. 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  285 

The  turtle  lost  Itself  among  the  bunches  of  thyme. 

But  the  sisters  regarded  her  imbecility  and  the 
infirmity  of  the  woman  as  one  of  those  supreme 
proofs  of  martyrdom  to  which  the  Lord  calls  the 
elect  in  order  to  sanctify  and  glorify  them  later 
in  Paradise  and  they  surrounded  her  with  venera- 
tion and  care. 

In  the  summer  of  the  year  1881,  there  ap- 
peared signs  of  approaching  death.  Consumed 
and  maimed,  that  miserable  body  no  longer  re- 
sembled a  human  being.  Slow  deformations  had 
corrupted  the  joints  of  the  arms;  tumours,  large 
as  apples,  protruded  from  her  sides,  on  her  shoul- 
der and  on  the  back  of  her  head. 

The  morning  of  the  loth  day  of  September, 
about  the  eighth  hour,  a  trembling  of  the  earth 
shook  Ortona  to  its  foundations.  Many  build- 
ings fell,  the  roofs  and  walls  of  others  were  in- 
jured, and  still  others  were  bent  and  twisted.  All 
of  the  good  people  of  Ortona,  with  weeping,  with 
cries,  with  invocations,  with  great  invoking  of 
saints  and  madonnas,  came  out  of  their  doors  and 
assembled  on  the  plain  of  San  Rocco,  fearing 
greater  perils.  The  nuns,  seized  with  panic,  broke 
from  the  cloister  and  ran  into  the  streets, 
struggling  and  seeking  safety.    Four  of  them  bore 


286        TALES  OF  MY  NATIVE  TOJVN 

Anna  upon  a  table.  And  all  drew  toward  the 
plain,  In  the  direction  of  the  uninjured  people. 

As  they  arrived  In  sight  of  the  people,  spontane- 
ous shouts  arose,  since  the  presence  of  these 
religious  souls  seemed  propitious.  On  all  sides 
lay  the  sick,  the  aged  and  infirm,  children  In 
swaddling  clothes,  women  stupid  from  fear.  A 
beautiful  morning  sun  shed  lustre  upon  the  tumul- 
tous waves  of  the  sea  and  upon  the  vineyards ;  and 
along  the  lower  coast  the  sailors  ran,  seeking  their 
wives,  calling  their  children  by  name,  out  of 
breath,  and  hoarse  from  climbing;  and  from  Cal- 
dara  there  began  to  arrive  herds  of  sheep  and 
oxen  with  their  keepers,  flocks  of  turkey-cocks 
with  their  feminine  guardians,  and  cart-houses, 
since  all  feared  solitude  and  men  and  beasts  In 
the  turmoil  became  comrades. 

Anna,  resting  upon  the  ground,  beneath  an  olive 
tree,  perceiving  death  to  be  near,  was  mourning 
with  a  weak  murmur,  because  she  did  not  wish  to 
die  without  the  Sacrament,  and  the  nuns  around 
her  administered  comfort  to  her,  and  the  bystand- 
ers looked  at  her  piously.  Now,  suddenly  among 
the  people  spread  the  news  that  from  the  Porta 
Caldara  had  issued  the  image  of  the  Apostle. 
Hope  revived  and  hymns  of  thanksgiving  mount- 
ed to  the  sky.     As  from  afar  vibrated  an  unex- 


THE  VIRGIN  ANNA  287 

pected  flash,  the  women  knelt  and  tearfully  with 
their  hair  dishevelled,  began  to  walk  upon  their 
knees,  towards  the  flash,  while  Intoning  psalms. 

Anna  became  agonised.  Sustained  by  two  sis- 
ters, she  heard  the  prayers,  heard  the  announce- 
ment, and  perhaps  under  her  last  illusions,  she  saw 
the  Apostle  approaching,  for  over  her  hollow  face 
there  passed  a  smile  of  joy.  Several  bubbles  of 
saliva  appeared  upon  her  lips,  a  violent  undulation 
of  her  body  occurred,  extended  visibly  to  the  ex- 
tremities of  her  body,  while  upon  her  eyes  the  eye- 
lids fell,  reddish  as  from  thin  blood,  and  her  head 
shrank  Into  her  shoulders.  Thus  the  virgin  Anna 
finally  expired. 

When  the  flash  appeared  more  closely  to  the 
adoring  women,  there  shone  In  the  sun  the  form 
of  a  beast  of  burden  carrying  balanced  upon  its 
back,  according  to  the  custom,  an  ornament  of 
metal. 

THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or  on  the 

date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


I8Apr'55AM 
MAY2  51955U^ 


SEP    61969'* 
OCT    61969 


\  FEB'57DP 

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j^C'D  LD  SEP 

NOV  2  7  1977     {^ 

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REG.  ClUJftN     6  78 


« 


27 '69-^  AM 


21-100m-l,'54(1887sl6)476 


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Cor\ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


